Twice Burned
by
Pamela Burford


DOUBLE DARE

Two sizzling stories about twin sisters,

written by twin sisters!

SILHOUETTE BOOKS

"Special Agent Logan Pierce.  I need you to come with me."

Zara's jaw dropped.  "What?"

"No time to explain.  The first priority is to get you somewhere safe."
The fingers of his hand wrapped around her upper arm like a steel
band.

"Safe!  What the--'

She was accompanying a strange man--a very large and intimidating
strange man--to God knew where, for God knew what purpose.

Zara jerked hard against his unyielding grip, to no avail.  "Hold on,"
she cried.  "Mr.  Pierce!  I need to see your ID again."

"No time."

Her voice wobbled as they sprinted across the car park.  "Why do you
have to get me somewhere safe.  Safe from what?  From who?"

He stopped, but he did not release her.  His features were strong,
intriguing.  His big body radiated heat and male vitality.  "You should
be more careful who you do business with."

Dear Reader,

When our editors asked us to write two books featuring twin heroines,
they didn't have to ask twice!  As identical twins ourselves, we knew
we'd have a blast with this unique project.

Along with the creative challenge came a geographical one: We live four
hundred miles apart!  However, between occasional road trips and daily
phone calls (our twin telepathy was on the fritz), we brainstormed a
dynamite suspense story that began in Twice the Spice, Pat's Mills &
Boon Temptation (January '98) and ends here in Pam's Twice Burned.

While each book stands on its own, we urge you to read both for the
most enjoyment.  We've combined tender romance and sizzling passion in
a story rife with mistaken identity, heart-thumping danger, stunning
plot twists and more than one dark secret.

Our twin heroines, Emma and Zara, are close to our hearts.  Despite
different personalities and a strained relationship, their special bond
gives them the strength and courage to overcome all odds.  And as for
Gage and Logan ... we think you'll fall in love with them both, just as
we did!

We'd love to hear from you.  Write to us care of Harlequin Mills & Boon
Ltd, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR.

Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Pamela Burford and Patricia Ryan

Twice Burned

PAMELA BURFORD

Intrigue

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any Jrm.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises H B.V. The text of this publication or any part
thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the
written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shah not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this' condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademark' of Harlequin Books
S4."  used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 1998

Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey TW9 I SR

Pamela Loeser 1997

ISBN 0 373 22420 6

46-9802

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham

To the 'good twin," Patricia Ryan, for never letting me forget that
life is not a dress rehearsal

Chapter One

Wolf's eyes, Zara thought, watching the man weave through the crowd at
Kennedy Airport's International Arrivals Building, that feral golden
brown gaze riveted to her.

It struck her then, where she'd seen those eyes.  In that painting of a
timber wolf that used to hang in her father's den.

A little shiver scuttled up her spine.  Exhaustion, she told herself I
The flight from Sydney to New York had been interminable, and she'd yet
to refine the art of sleeping on planes.  On top of that, the geek in
customs had given her short, tight-fitting fuchsia suit a lingering
once-over and made her wait another half hour while he took his time
pawing through her luggage and ogling her cleavage.

Now she wanted nothing more than to cab it back to her penthouse
apartment on East Eighty-sixth and soak the kinks away in an
aroma-therapeutic whirlpool bath.  Maybe she'd call her masseuse.

She grimaced, remembering her masseuse was a thing of the past, thanks
to Tony.  Her ex-husband's greed and vindictiveness had left her
emotionally and financially drained.  She'd lost even the privacy she
so desperately craved, since she now lacked the means to install her
mother in a place of her own.

With any luck, Mom would be out bowling or something and Zara would
have a few rare minutes of solitary peace:

With even more luck, her twin sister, Emma, wouldn't have bollixed up
the transaction Zara had arranged.  The transaction that would give her
back her privacy,

Wolf Eyes was nearly upon her now, striding with single-minded resolve.
He was hard to ignore, towering over everyone else by at least half a
head, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, those eerie, unsmiling
eyes locked on her like heat-seeking missiles.  She sighed.  What
now?

Whatever business he had with her, it could wait till Monday, and
office hours.  She refused to deal with it now, when she was mentally
fried and both her Movado watch and her internal clock were set at
Sydney time.  She rationalized that since she'd already made it to
Saturday morning, she could ignore this pushy fellow who was still
getting through Friday afternoon

He was probably some hack author who took exception to receiving a form
rejection letter from the Zara Sutcliffe Literary Agency.

She tried to veer away from him, but her progress was hampered by the
gigantic wheeled Hartmann suitcase she was hauling, with assorted
smaller matching bags dangling from it by straps.

Suddenly he was there, planted directly in her path like some damn
sequoia, blocking her escape route.

She skidded to a graceless stop in her stiletto heels, nearly landing
on her fanny when the heavy suitcase rolled into her, driven by forward
momentum.

Rather than reaching out to steady her, as any gentleman would have
done, Wolf Eyes flashed an open badge wallet in her face.

"Special Agent Logan Pierce.  FBI.  I need you to come with me, Miss
Sutcliffe."

Zara's jaw dropped and she gaped at him like a beached mackerel.
"What?"

He reached around her and seized the handle of her suitcase.  "No time
to explain.  The first priority is to get you somewhere safe."

"Safe!  What the--"

The fingers of his free hand wrapped around her upper arm like a steel
band.  He swiftly propelled her along with him toward the distant
exit.

They were halfway there when the shock wore off and her mind lurched
into high gear.  She was accompanying a strange man--a very large and
intimidating strange man--to God knew where, for God knew what purpose.
He didn't even look like an FBI agent.  Didn't G-men wear suits and
ties?  This guy was in jeans and a black windbreaker over a maroon
T-shirt.

Zara jerked hard against his unyielding grip, to no avail.  He didn't
even slow his pace.  He towed her ponderous luggage with such apparent
ease, it might have been a toddler's pull toy.

"Hold on!"  she cried.  "Wait up a minute."

No response.  Those stony wolf's eyes never stopped scanning the noisy
crowd, for what, hidden perils, she could only imagine.

"Mr.  Pierce!  I mean, Agent Pierce, please!"  She twisted her arm
where his long fingers crushed the silk.  "You're hurting me."

"You're hurting yourself.  Take it easy."

"Take it easy?  Listen, mister, if you don't let go of me this instant
and tell.  me what this is about, I swear I'll scream my head off."

He stopped, but he didn't release her.  He stared down at her, his
expression revealing impatience and more than a little distaste.  His
features were strong, not classically handsome but interesting.

Okay, intriguing.  She couldn't help it.  Behind those cool amber eyes
she detected more stories than one man had a right to.

She almost laughed at the fanciful notion.  Her imagination would be
the death of her yet.  If she could write worth a damn, she'd be a
novelist herself instead of a literary agent.

She tried to sound assertive.  "I need to see your ID again,"

"No time."  He was off once more, Zara's spiked heels clicking on the
tiled floor as he hauled her along, just another piece of baggage,

Outside the terminal, the air was balmy, the sky clear azure--a
flawless May afternoon.  Zara squinted against the dazzling sun,
wishing she could get to her shades.  Somehow she doubted Pierce would
be willing to stop and let her fish them out of her carry-on.

They crossed busy airport roads, darting through traffic.  All the
while he continued to scrutinize their surroundings.

Suddenly it occurred to her that his loose windbreaker almost certainly
Concealed a holster.  She swallowed back a knot of apprehension.  Her
voice wobbled as they sprinted across the parking lot.  "You said you
had to get me somewhere safe.  Safe from what?  From who?"

"MacGowan Byrne."

She lost her precarious footing as that sank in, and would have ended
up sprawled on the pavement if not for Pierce's death grip on her
arm.

"Mac Byrne?"  she squeaked.  "The art dealer?"  The man she'd made Emma
promise to meet to complete the lucrative sale she'd arranged?  The man
who was going to solve all her financial problems?

"That's the one."  He retrieved a key chain and thumbed a keyless entry
button.  A car chirped nearby.  A small, sleek BMW.  Black with tinted
windows and wide tires.  He quickly stowed her luggage in the trunk,
then opened the passenger door and shoved her inside.  She barely had
time to pull in her feet before he slammed the door.

He circled the car and slid behind the wheel, his movements swift and
economical, as graceful as the timber wolf she'd likened him to.

And no doubt as dangerous.

He seemed to completely fill the compact sports car, his big body
radiating heat and male vitality.  Turning the key, he said, "You
should be more careful who you do business with.  Mac Byrne tried to
kill your sister when she went to meet with him."  "Emma?"  she
whispered.

Zara was drowning.  Air.  She needed air.  She dug her nails into the
leather armrest, her chest heaving with the effort to make her world
stop reeling.

"Is she ... is she okay?"

Pierce didn't spare her a glance.  "She's no longer in danger.  But
he's got your mother.  Candy Carmelle.  Kidnapped her from your
apartment over a week ago."

A sob broke through the fingers she clamped over her mouth.

Dear God, what have I done?

A solid metallic snick made her jump.  The sound of power door locks
engaging.  She glanced at the spot where her own lock button should
have been, only to spy an empty hole.  Her gaze flew to her companion's
impassive profile as he palmed the steering wheel and backed out of the
parking space.

"A little insurance."

CANDY CARMELLE WAS a dead woman.  She could see it in her captor's
cold, golden brown eyes.  Wolfs eyes.

As she looked back on her.  sixty-one years, her only regret was having
slept with Billy Sharke back in 1966 for the ray gun--the first Step in
a love affair that changed the course of her life.  If it weren't for
that damn ray gun, she'd be home right now, watching "Oprah" and
working Lady Clairol into her roots.

Billy had directed her in Dr.  Blood, Blood Wedding, The Slithering,
The Brain from Asteroid X, The Atomic Bride and Return of the Atomic
Bride.  He'd adored Candy.  No one could scream like her.  She was the
queen bee of B-movie scream queens.  A regular diva.

Candy stared sullenly at the movie prop that had vanquished the Atomic
Bride and her undead minions in Return, now tucked into a corner of the
dingy basement room that had been her prison for more than a week.  The
ray gun was polished chrome, the size and approximate shape of a rifle.
A 1950s version of a futuristic weapon, it sported more knobs, levers,
gadgets and gizmos than the space shuttle.

She'd thought she was the only one with a sentimental attachment to the
silly thing.  Seems some weird recluse with more money than God just
couldn't live without it.  And Mac Byrne was more than willing to
accommodate him.  "

She sneaked a peek at Mac, who'd just come in from one of his
mysterious excursions.  He sat slumped at the opposite end of the
rump-sprung sofa that doubled as her bed, staring into middle distance
and muttering to himself.  She thought she heard ripe cussing directed
at "that damn cowboy."  Again.

No doubt about it, her captor was a few pecans short of a pie and
getting loonier by the hour.

Maybe that "damn cowboy" was the one who'd worked Mac over shortly
after he kidnapped Candy from her daughter Zara's apartment.  Mac had
hog-tied her and left her in this musty cellar for what seemed like
hours.  She had to admit the terror and discomfort were almost worth it
when he returned looking like rewarmed dog do--a split lip, a nasty
shiner and a couple of cracked ribs.

Couldn't happen to a nicer psychopath.

If nothing else, the shellacking her captor had endured was evidence
that all was not going according to his demented plans.  Which might
mean that her daughter Emma, Zara's twin sister, was still safe.
Perhaps this "cowboy," whoever he was, was looking after her.  Whatever
else, Candy couldn't help but feel warm and fuzzy about anyone Mac
hated so virulently.

"Mac...?"  Her tone couldn't get more syrupy if she were gargling with
molasses.

He slid her a suspicious sidelong glance.

She scooted closer.  "Your face healed up nicely, but I bet those ribs
are still bothering you.  Lemme have a look."

She reached for his shirt.  He grabbed her wrist, not roughly but with
enough force to aggravate the rope burns.  She winced.  Immediately his
touch turned gentle as he sat up and examined the welts.

He murmured, "Your skin is so delicate.  These'll get infected if I
don't put something on them.  I'll go out for some ointment."

"Your hands are very soothing."  She smiled shyly and traced the
muscular pad of his thumb.  "But strong, too.  I find that so ...
intriguing.  A man of contradictions."

Contradictions, hell, the guy was downright schizo id brutally cold one
second, tender and solicitous the next.

Sweet Lord, how had this demented creep talked Zara into selling him
the ray gun in the first place?  Her daughter was supposed to be an
astute business-woman.  Candy liked the way they'd put it in that Wall
Street Journal article:

Zara Sutcliffe is the quintessential nineties wheeler-dealer, a
glamorous literary super agent with more media presence than her famous
and infamous clients.

Candy Often wished Zara's twin sister, Emma, possessed a fraction of
that glamour-or the street smarts that went along with it.  But then,
it was staid, sensible Emma who'd been forced to cope with the
desperate situation her impulsive sister had caused.

She studied Mac as he tenderly inspected her wrists.  His display of
concern was ludicrous--they both knew he had no intention of releasing
her alive.

The man might be a homicidal maniac, but he was a good-looking,
prosperous homicidal maniac.  Mid-thirties, tall and powerfully built,
with rugged features and long dark hair past his shoulders--and that
Rolex didn't come from Kmart.  On the surface, precisely the sort of
affluent, studly hunk she'd always wanted Emma and Zara to hook up
with.

He said, "I didn't want to do this to you, Candy.  They left me no
choice."  Those wolflike eyes looked more like a puppy's now, anxious
for her approval.

He'd abducted her to force Emma to hand over the ray gun.  Now that he
had it, he was supposed to release her.  But Candy was under no
illusions.  She'd seen enough movies to know what happened to hostages
who could identify their kidnappers.

They were never heard from again.

Her only hope was to stall for time.  And the best way to accomplish
that was to play on Mac's weakness: his adolescent fixation on Candy
Carmelle, scream queen extraordinaire.

When he'd kidnapped her he was no doubt anticipating your basic
sixtyish grandma type.  What he'd ended up with was the same fit,
alluring B-movie actress he'd obviously spent his youth drooling over,
glued to the tube and Reptile Bride day after day on the "Million
Dollar Movie."

She and Jane Fonda were about the same age, and the similarities didn't
stop there.  They were both shining examples of sexy mature womanhood.
Candy even dreamed of starring in her own exercise videos, though that
was all it amounted to, a dream.  Her initial inquiries had left her
dispirited.

Still, that goal had been something to fantasize about when she'd
assumed she had a few more decades in which to grow old disgracefully.
With every hour that passed, that future appeared more elusive.  Well,
she sure as hell wasn't going to give in without a fight.  Her weapon
of choice?  The one she'd spent a lifetime honing.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and was pleased to note the
direction of Mac's gaZe.  The top two buttons of her blouse had popped
off during the struggle in Zara's apartment, revealing a deep vee of
crimson lace and what Billy Sharke used to call ten pounds of
cantaloupes in a five-pound sack.

She sank her pearly capped incisors into her collagen-enhanced lower
lip, her full, shivering sigh a double-barreled testament to the
wonders of modern medical science.  She quickly averted her
tear-glazed, nipped-and-tucked eyes, just as she'd done back in 1963
when the title creature in The Undead Tongue got a little too close for
comfort.

"Aw, Candy..."

"I--" That little catch in her voice for effect.  "I'm just
so--so--frightened, Mac."

He released his breath in a rush and sagged into the sofa.  Avoiding
her eyes.

She was doomed.

Why hadn't she married Billy?  She could've had him, he'd wanted to
make it legal, but no, she had to go and elevate herself.  That's where
John Sutcliffe, investment banker, came in.  Rambling estate in
Connecticut.  Piles of moldy Old Money.  Hordes of snooty
richer-than-thou friends.

And a mean streak that had no bounds.

She hadn't lasted two years.  Leaving him was the biggest mistake of
her life.  By the time she realized John would never let her have the
girls, it was too late.  He wouldn't take her back.  And she was no
match for the high-powered lawyers all that Old Money could buy.

So she lost her twin daughters, Zara and Emma,

her beautiful dark-haired babies.  Didn't see them again till they were
grown and came looking for her, after John's death.

Mac jumped up and paced to the far wall.  "He was there, you know. He's
there every time I turn around nowadays.  I can feel him breathing down
my neck, just waiting for me to slip up."  He kicked a metal utility
pail and sent it flying across the room.

Candy said, "Who?  The cowboy?"

His gaze snapped to her and she bit her lip.  Gone were the puppy-dog
eyes.  Here was the wolf, dangerous and unpredictable.

"No," he said slowly.  "Not the cowboy."  He stalked to the Peg-Board
and grabbed the loop of rope hanging there.

A whimper of protest escaped.  her.  He didn't al ways tie her when he
left the house; it depended on his mood and the depth of his paranoia
at the moment.

He had to know she was helpless either way.  The one window was
securely covered with thick plywood nailed to the fifties-style knotty
pine paneling.  The door at the top of the wooden stairs was bolted
from the outside, and there was nothing in either her little prison or
the adjacent bathroom that could be used as a weapon or to summon
help.

He stood there for an indecisive moment, scowling at her abused wrists.
Then he flung the rope to the tile floor.  She let out a silent sigh of
relief, careful to avoid eye contact.  She'd already learned not to
mess with him when he was like this.  He could turn on her in a
heartbeat.

Even when he did tie her, he never bothered gagging her, and she no
longer wasted her breath hollering for help.  Her talents as a scream
queen were useless here in this isolated old house in a semirural area
north of New York City.  No neighbors within earshot.

Mac grabbed the ray gun and took the steps three at a time.  Candy
flinched when she heard the bolt slide home.

THE COCKROACH SKIRTED the edge of the bare mat tress lying on the
filthy concrete floor.  It-paused a moment, then crawled up onto the
frayed ticking.

Zara shuddered.  Pierce couldn't really expect her to sleep on that
revolting thing, with its mildewy odor and suspicious-looking stains?

The cool, coarse floor tugged at her stockinged feet as she crossed to
the long wall of grime-encrusted windows.  It was nearly dark.  The
sky--what she could see of it above the windowless brick building
across the street--was a deep purplish gray.  One window was taped open
and she stuck her head out to feel the cool breeze on her face, to draw
in a lungful.  of the foul New York City air she'd missed so much while
she was in Australia.

She was five stories up in a deserted movers' warehouse in an
industrial area of Manhattan.  Somewhere in the Thirties near Tenth
Avenue--she hadn't paid strict attention when they arrived three hours
ago, preoccupied as she'd been with trying to pry information out of a
taciturn Agent Pierce.

If he really was an FBI agent.

He'd escorted her up here, locked her in for her protection,-he'd
said--and left immediately.  He hadn't even had the decency to bring
her luggage up from the car.  For three hours she'd had only her over
active imagination for company.

And her guilt.

If Pierce was to be believed, Zara's mother had been kidnapped.  By Mac
Byrne, the same maniac who'd tried to kill her twin sister, Emma.

This whole mess was her own fault.  She closed her eyes and slumped
against the window, the glass cool against her forehead.  It was she
who'd put the ball in motion by jumping at Mac's offer to buy Candy's
ray gun.  She should have known it was too good to be true.

Two million dollars.

The strident sound of the dead bolt kick-started her heart.  Pierce
materialized on the threshold, a shadowy figure filling the doorway.

"It's dark in here."  His deep voice rumbled across the cavernous room
and rolled over her, through her.

She swallowed hard.  "I--I didn't know if it was safe to turn on
lights."

He crossed the room in a few long strides, leaving a tantalizing aroma
in his wake.  A cluster of abandoned furniture occupied one corner,
including the unsavory mattress.  The floor lamp winked on--a retro:
looking throwback to the sixties.  She was glad he hadn't turned on the
overhead fluorescent lights.  He deposited a white paper sack on the
chipped, boomerang-shaped Formica coffee table.

"If you're a vegetarian, you're outta luck," he said.

"I'm not."  She didn't budge.

He unzipped his windbreaker and shrugged out of it.  Even though she
was prepared, the sight of his shoulder holster strapped over the
maroon T-shirt startled her.  The wide brown leather straps hugged his
shoulders front and back in a kind of halter design.  A black gun grip
peeked out from the burnished leather under his arm.

He kept it on.

He dragged a straight chair closer to the table, sat and began emptying
the bags.  Without looking up, he said, "You gonna stand there all
night?"

She locked her knees against a deep shiver.  What was it about this man
that made her feel so utterly exposed?

When they had yet to exchange fifty words!

He raised his head and those glowing golden eyes found her, skewered
her.  Challenged her.

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other.  The rough
floor fought her progress, snagging her stockings.  Each tentative step
felt like a cold, clinging kiss on the soles of her feet, urging her to
retreat.

He watched her steadily as she entered the circle of light thrown by
the floor lamp.  That assessing gaze missed nothing, from her short,
dark, stylishly cut hair down to the tiny runs racing up her black silk
stockings.

The inspection was thorough but not lewd.  In the instant before he
returned his attention to his dinner, she detected a hint 'of disdain.
As if, indeed, he saw right through the glamorous, self-possessed
facade she'd so painstakingly erected.  Most men were downright
intimidated by that facade--the look, the attitude, the trappings of
fame and success.  The whole beauty-and-brains thing.

Why couldn't Logan Pierce be one of those men?  She stared at the meal
he'd laid out on the dusty table.  Two large bundles wrapped in white
deli paper.  A couple of plastic salad containers.  Plastic-wrapped
carrot cake and two bottles of iced tea.  "The Sicilian's for you," he
said.  "The what?"

"That's what the deli down the street calls it."  He unwrapped one of
the bundles and lifted the top of a hero roll to reveal the motley
contents.  "Genoa salami, pepperoni, mortadella, provolone," he
recited.  "Lettuce, tomato, onions, olive oil and vinegar.  The whole
shebang."  Those cool eyes flicked over her.  "I figured, since you're
part Italian."

She blinked.  A lucky guess, or was there a file at FBI headquarters
labeled Sutcliffe, Zara?

Perhaps that file included the little-known tidbits about her mother
that had never made it into the film fanzines.  Such as her Italian
heritage.  In 1957 beautiful, determined Giovanna Sarro bought herself
a one-way bus ticket from New York's Little Italy to Hollywood, where
she soon learned to mix peroxide with celluloid and remade herself as
Candy Carmelle.

Zara wanted to ask what else he knew, but instead said, "What are you
having?"

Wordlessly he opened his hard roll and showed her a pile of ultra rare
roast beef slathered with brown mustard.  The roll was stained red from
the meat.

She grimaced.  "Still twitching, I see."  She peered into the empty
bag.  "Paper plates?  For the slaw and potato salad?"

Mouth full, he shrugged and indicated the plastic forks.  As if he
expected the two of them to just dig in to the same container.

How cozy.

She looked around for another chair and came up empty.  "Listen,
Pierce, I'm kinda curious."

"Most people call me Logan."

"Logan, then.  You called this place a safe house.  I always thought a
safe house was supposed to be, like, a house?"

He studied her as he chewed and swallowed, then chased the wad of raw
cow with a long pull of iced tea.  "I always thought the operative word
was safe.  Sit down and eat."

She eyed the mattress with distaste, wishing Logan were gentleman
enough to offer her the chair.  She gingerly lowered herself onto the
very edge of the thin mattress, clamping her knees and ankles together
while trying to squirm into some semblance of a ladylike posture.
Nevertheless, her short, snug skirt rode way up, displaying the tops of
her stockings, black satin garter clasps and a healthy expanse of
thigh.  She yanked on the skirt, to no avail.

Logan, staring down from his perch next to her, had a spectacular view
of the action.  She was certain he could see not only her garter belt
but her black thong panties, as well.  Sitting there under that bright
floor lamp, she felt like Sharon Stone being interrogated in Basic
Instinct.

Except Sharon had been in control.  She certainly hadn't been wriggling
and swearing like this, wrenching at her recalcitrant clothing.  And
Michael Douglas had had the.  grace to be embarrassed.  This bastard
just sat there watching her, calmly devouring that damn bleeding thing
he called a sandwich!

She squeezed her knees together and splayed her ankles, grunting and
sweating as she tried to lever herself off the mattress.  "Help me up."
She reached out a hand.

"Do I have to?"

So he did know how to smile.  She'd assumed his face would fracture
with the effort.

Before she could spit out a reply, he seized her wrist and easily
hoisted her to her feet.

She gritted, "I don't suppose I could bother you for my luggage.  If
I'm going to be stuck here awhile, I'd like to change into something
less ... something more... "Practical?"  He got up and strode to the
door.  "Leave me some coleslaw."

Logan returned in less than two minutes.  He dumped her elegant matched
bags near one of the concrete-reinforced columns studding the room,
next to his enormous battered green duffel and a couple of sleeping
bags.  "There you go."

She hoisted one eyebrow and sneered, "Aren't you going to search my
luggage?"

"Did that earlier."

"What?"  She'd been kidding!

"Go change.  The john's over there."

"I know where it is."  She stalked toward her large Pullman bag and
started pulling out clothes.  "I found it while you were gone.  For
three hours!"  "Missed me, did you?".

She shot back, "Are you really an FBI agent?"

He never blinked.  "If I'm not, it's a little too late for you to do
anything about it now."

Chapter Two

When she emerged from the bathroom the lamplit corner was deserted. 
She peered into the shadows and finally located Logan at the windows. 
He held something to his ear--a tiny cellular phone.  His voice was a
deep murmur; she couldn't make out the words.  As he conversed, he
scanned the street below, making her wonder for the first time just how
safe this safe house was.

He turned, and though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was
staring at her.

She had to admit it felt like heaven to get out of those stockings and
that constricting suit she'd worn all the way from Sydney.  She'd
changed into a loose calf-length skirt of sand-washed silk in shades of
turquoise and ivory.  The supple fabric flowed around her bare legs
like a whisper.  Over it she wore a long ivory tunic of raw silk.  It
was the most comfortable outfit she owned, and the most subdued.  A far
cry from the sexy power suit that was her usual uniform.

He said, "Hang on, Lou," and addressed Zara.  "You go in Saturdays,
right?  To the office?"

"Sure.  Almost every week."  She crossed to her suitcase and stuffed
her travel clothes in it.

"Sundays, too," he said, as if he knew her schedule, and just wanted
confirmation.

"Sundays, too."  Why did he need to know this?  He turned his back to
her and spoke in low tones to Lou, whoever he was.  The phone closed
with a snap and he pushed the antenna in with his palm.

She said, "They're going to miss me at my office if I don't call--"

"It's already taken care of.  As far as your employees are concerned,
you had to return to Australia and will be out of touch for a while."

She stared at him, outraged at his presumption.  "Define 'a while.""

Instead, he changed the subject.  "If you're so hard up for cash, why
are you still holding on to that second apartment in L.A.?"  He strode
across the room and tossed the phone on the mattress.  "Ever since your
divorce, you spend all your time at the office anyway."

His casual observation clawed at wounds that were still raw after
eighteen months.  She closed her eyes for a few moments, willing the
bitter memories back into the dark place in her soul reserved for her
failures.  It was getting pretty crowded in there.

She took a deep breath.  "I need a place to stay on the coast.  I'm out
there all the time, negotiating book-movie deals for my clients."  She
joined him at the coffee table.

He sat and grabbed a fork and the container of potato salad.  "I
thought you were supposed to be some kind of crackerjack businesswoman.
What possessed you to get involved with Mac Byrne?"

"Don't you think I checked him out first?  I talked to a couple of
people who've dealt with him.  MacGowan Byrne is a well-known
dealer--supposedly reputable--in art and collectibles.  He locates
pieces for well-heeled clients, for a commission.  That's why I don't
understand all this."

She settled on the mattress again.  It felt good to cross her legs
under the voluminous skirt and sit comfortably.  Logan, his mouth full,
tipped the potato salad toward her in offering.  She shook her head and
reached for her sandwich.  It weighed several pounds.

She continued, "Mac first called a few weeks ago, on behalf of some
mysterious, reclusive client.  Some nut job willing to fork over
beaucoup bucks for that worthless old ray gun of Mom's."

"A prop from Return of the Atomic Bride."  "Right.  He called the
apartment looking for Mom, but I answered the phone.  Which seemed a
stroke of luck at the time.  If he'd talked to Mom, she'd never have
agreed to part with the damn thing.  He offered three grand at first. I
mean, it was laughable.  I could tell just by his tone of voice that
whoever wanted that ray gun was willing to shell out a lot more than
three grand."

"The infamous Zara Sutcliffe business savvy."  "I'm telling you, I
could practically smell Mac's greed, even' across the phone lines," she
said, unwrapping her sandwich.  "I've only spoken to him on the phone.
Never met him in person.  I don't even know what he looks like."

Something about the way Logan said, "I know," gave her pause.  She
glanced at him, but his expression revealed nothing.

He plunked the fork into the potato salad and set it on the table, then
slid down a little on the rickety chair, crossing an ankle on his knee
and lacing his fingers behind his head.  She decided he was the type
who could relax in any setting, no matter how austere.

His movements drew her attention to the sheer male elegance of his
form.  The shingled muscles of his abdomen tightened briefly under the
snug T-shirt; his powerful thighs stressed the worn denim of his
jeans.

Somehow she knew he was one of those rare big men with lightning-quick
reflexes, a man gifted with speed and stamina as well as raw strength.
She sensed it in the aura of confidence and authority he exuded, even
in repose.

Nothing could get past him.  No one could get to her while she was with
him.

Which wasn't a wholly comforting thought.

Are you really an FBI agent?

If l' tn not, it's a little too late for you to do anything about it
now.

He eyed her sandwich with interest.  "You gonna eat that?"

Forcing her attention to her meal, she took a bite.  The mingled
flavors and textures detonated in her mouth.

A groan of ecstasy erupted from her throat.  A long, low moan of sheer
gustatory rapture that warbled through a range of octaves.  She
couldn't help it.  She'd always been absurdly appreciative of good
food.

She shot an embarrassed glance at Logan, his indolent posture now at
odds with the smoky intensity of his gaze.  That's when she realized
her shoulders had been doing that little shimmy she'd always thought of
as her "yummy dance."

Suddenly she regretted her decision to shed her bra along with' her
stockings.

He leaned forward quickly.  Drained half the tea in his bottle.  "So.
You.upped the price."

Price?  "Uh, yeah, I could tell when I was reaching the upper limit of
what Mac's client was willing to pay.  He was absurdly easy to read."
"Not so easy, as it turned out."  She stared at him.

He said, "If you could're read him for real, you'd have known he's a
psychopath.  A very dangerous psychopath."

She thought of her mother at the mercy of a homicidal maniac.
She'thought of Emma, timid, unprepossessing Emma, Daddy's "good girl,"
fending off a murder attempt.

All because of Zara's lapse in judgment.  She and her sister had never
been close, but still... She was her twin.  Her clone.  The other half
of herself.

Suddenly she couldn't swallow around a throat clogged with tears.  She
set down the sandwich and reiterated the questions he'd refused to
answer during the drive from the airport.  "You said he tried to kill
her.  What did he do?  Was she hurt?"

Heignored her.  "Didn't Mac's demands raise any alarms in your head?
Didn't it occur to you, when he insisted on dealing only with you, that
he might have something nasty planned?"

"Not really."  She shrugged.  "I just figured' he was ... eccentric.
Like his clients.  Like half the people I do business with in the New
York publishing world and Hollywood.  I figured I'd just meet him at
his office in SoHo, like he asked, and exchange the ray gun for a
certified check."

"For two million bucks."

The way he said it made her cringe at her own naivete Had she been so
eager--no, desperate--for the cash that she'd ignored the signs of
danger, relinquished her usual business savvy?  Hell, her common sense
?

For some reason, she wanted Logan to understand her motivations.  "My
mother has been living with me for the last two months, ever since her
latest boyfriend dumped her and she had to move out of his houseboat.
My divorce left me broke, Logan.  I couldn't afford to buy or rent her
anyplace decent."

"Broke?"  His sneer of incredulity said it all as he treated her to an
insolent once-over, his gaze lingering on her Movado watch.

She felt her face flame.  "All my clothes and everything, that's all
from before the divorce.  I haven't bought anything new in a year and a
half."  Why did she feel compelled to explain herself to this arrogant,
overbearing son of a bitch?  "I sold all my jewelry.  This is the only
piece I kept."  She indicated the watch.

"I'm ready to weep."

"All I wanted was to set Morn up in a nice place of her own.  You can't
imagine what it's been like.

She's turned my beautiful apartment into a showcase for that disgusting
collection of props from her horror flicks."

The only halfway cool thing was the futuristic bride's dress on a
mannequin--white satin, real short and ultra low-cut, with a big
winglike collar and matching thigh-high boots.  It was used in The
Atomic Bride.

"I like those posters."  He gestured dramatically.  "House of Blood, in
Bloodcolor!  That one's my favorite.  Though I gotta admit, that
decapitated head under the glass dome--with all those
electrodes?-that's pretty damn impressive."

Zara stared dumbly as her exhausted mind assimilated this latest
development.  "My God.  You've been in my apartment.  My home."  Her
precious sanctum, She felt violated.  First her luggage, and now this.
Her voice rose in pitch.  "When?  How did you get in?  Did you paw
tough all my--my private things?"

"Relax.  I'm One of the good guys, remember?"  Are you?  She snapped
her mouth shut, on the brink of verbalizing the question.

He smiled slowly.  Reading her mind.  "You know, I'd have thought you'd
be more worried about your mother's welfare than whether I've been
'pawing' through your naughties.  But since you brought it up.  All
that stuff--the lacy little bras and string panties, the garter belts
and nighties and teddies, and those corset things... ?"  He jiggled his
cupped hands under his pecs in illustration.

"Bustiers."  She forced the word through clenched teeth.  "All that
stuff is from before the divorce?"  He chuckled.  "Good old Tony.  Guy
must be a wild man."

She'd never thought of her ex in just that way, though she had to admit
the description fit--utilizing a more literal definition of wild.
Barbaric.  Cruel.  Malicious.

With Tony, she could never be certain where constructive criticism
ended and pure spitefulness began.  Some of it had to be true.  After
all, his recitation of her faults only echoed what she'd heard from her
father's lips for so many years.

You're self-centered, Zara.  Shallow.  No moral fiber.

I'm ashamed to call you my daughter.  Why can't you be more like
Emma?

As for the "naughties," she wasn't surprised by Logan's
testosterone-induced assumption that her husband had bought them for
her.  As if it were unheard-of for a woman to treat herself to pretty
under-things for her own sake.  As if the only function of such
clothing were the sexual titillation of men.

He reached for a piece of carrot cake.  She watched him unwrap it.
Watched, transfixed, as his long, supple fingers slowly peeled back
layers of cellophane.  Finally he lifted the plastic wrap free and
licked off the cream cheese frosting that adhered to it.

Zara swallowed, vaguely surprised when she didn't taste cream cheese
frosting.

"So there you were," he said, wadding up the cellophane and lobbing it
into a battered metal trash can, "all set to hand over the ray gun to
your friendly neighborhood psycho, when things started falling apart
down under on the set of some movie."

She nodded, grateful to occupy her mind with something besides Logan's
tongue and her galloping imagination.  "Thunder in the Outback.  Maxine
Moore is one of my clients."  At his quizzical expression she said,
"Maxine Moore, the novelist screenwriter?  High and Mighty?  Lake
Forever?"  "Never saw 'em."

"Well, anyway, Maxine's a tad temperamental when it comes to rewrites.
Threw one of her patented hissy fits, and the next thing I know,
everyone's suing everyone else.  Two years of cutthroat negotiations to
engineer this deal, and in two minutes she's got the whole thing going
down the tubes.  I had no choice.  Had to fly out there right away and
put out the brush fires, get the project back on track."

"So you made Emma pretend she was you to keep the appointment with
Mac."

"I asked her to take my place.  To borrow my clothes, impersonate me--a
necessary subterfuge Since Mac insisted--"

"I know.  Insisted on dealing only with you."  Suddenly she felt
deflated.  Defeated.  "There never was a certified check for two
million dollars, was there?"

Logan shook his head.

Her eyes burned and she blinked to clear her vision.  "He tried to kill
Emma.  He thought she was me and he tried to kill her."

He stared into the murky expanse of the warehouse.  Those amber eyes
lost their hard edge and appeared unfocused, troubled.  "I think in the
beginning he had every intention of going through with the sale," he
said quietly.  "A legitimate transaction."

She was catching on.  "When he thought he could get the ray gun for a
few grand."

"I figure his client's paying him a flat two mil, rather than a
commission.  The less money he has to pay you for the gun--"

"The more he gets to keep."

"Right.  He wasn't prepared for you to jack up the price like that.  In
Mac Byrne's mind, shrewd business tactics and beautiful women occupy
completely separate niches.  He figured you'd jump at his initial
offer-"

"And he'd be richer by nearly two million bucks."  She hugged herself
as a chill gripped her, though the room was warm.  "Why did he try to
kill me?  I mean, why did he try to kill Emma when he thought she was
me?"

"You can identify him by name.  When he agreed to your price, it was a
ruse.  He planned to steal the ray gun and do you in so you couldn't
finger him."  "Did he get away with the gun?"

"Not then, but eventually he got ahold of it.  He doesn't give up
easily."

"You're so sure of the guy.  His motives, his plans, how his mind
works.  How can you be that sure, Logan?"

The terrain of his face shifted subtly, hardened.  Zara hugged herself
tighter.

"I know all about Mac Byrne," he said, at last.  "I've been after him
for months."

She knew the FBI had a Behavioral Science Unit that did criminal
profiling.  Was that the source of these insights?

She said, "So you met my plane and brought me here just for my
protection, to keep Mac away from me?"

Something flashed in his unguarded expression before he briefly turned
away.  Something that prickled the hairs on her nape.

But his voice was cool, with just a tinge of sarcasm.  "I believe
that's the point of a safe house."

"But you're also trying to apprehend Mac Byrne."  And rescue my mother.
Are the police involved?"

"No.  Believe me, they'd only get in the way of an operation like
this."

"So who's this Lou you were talking to?  Another agent?"

He didn't answer.  She felt invisible.

"What are you doing to locate my mother?"  "You know all you need to
know, Zara."

She pounded the mattress in frustration.  "Why are you keeping
information from me?  I have a right to know what happened while I was
gone, what's being done to rescue Morn."

He rose and started stuffing the empty food wrap-pets in the paper
sack.

She rose, too.  "I will not be dismissed like some pesky child!"  She
grabbed his arm and got in his face.  "Where's my sister?"

"I told you--she's safe."

"That's not good enough."

"It'll have to be.  The less you know, the better."  "For who?"

Silence She became aware of her nails gouging his arm where she gripped
him.  She uncurled her fingers and saw a row of red half-moons on his
skin.  He paid no notice.

"So that's it?"  she asked, her voice tight.  "I'm to be kept in the
dark unless and until you decide there's something I need to know?"

"That's about the size of it."

She could have laughed if the circumstances weren't so dreadful.  Here
was renowned literary agent Zara Sutcliffe, a figure of immense power
in New York and Hollywood, confined to a filthy, dilapidated warehouse,
at the mercy of a man who might or might not be one of the good guys.

THE MAN WHO CALLED himself Logan Pierce watched Zara sleep.  She lay
curled up in one of his sleeping bags near the edge of the mattress,
her rolled-up silk robe pillowing her head.

Around midnight he'd ordered her to hit the hay.  She'd resisted, and
he knew why.  It wasn't easy to succumb to the vulnerability of sleep
in the presence of someone you didn't trust.  She was afraid of him. 
He knew that.  He' could have told her she had every reason to be.

In the end her acute exhaustion settled the matter.  She'd been awake
for more than twenty-four hours.  Running on empty.

Rising, he unhooked his shoulder holster and dropped it on the battered
steel desk.  She flinched at the sound and he froze for a few seconds,
until he heard her slow, rhythmic breathing once more.  He extracted
the Glock nine-millimeter and laid it on the floor at the head of his
sleeping bag, next to the mattress.  Slipped his T-shirt over his head
and unbuckled his belt.

When she'd emerged from the bathroom after getting ready for bed, he
hadn't known whether to laugh or jump her bones.  He'd been all
prepared to see her in some silky nothing of a nightie like the ones
he'd found in her dresser drawers.  Not this skimpy white tank-style
undershirt that clung to every curve.  The ribbed material stretched,
and stretched some more, to accommodate high, full breasts, whose dusky
tips he could just make out.  If he tried hard enough.

And he certainly hadn't expected the black silk boxer shorts.  Men's
shorts.  "Tony's?"  he'd asked her.  When he could find his voice.

"No," she'd answered, running coral-tipped fingers over the gleaming
satin.  "Women wear these now--they're comfortable."

Uh-huh.  Maybe for her, but what they were doing to him was decidedly
uncomfortable, he mused, standing behind her as she knelt to lay out
her sleeping bag.

She glanced over her shoulder and asked, "Where are you going to
sleep?"  A quivering hint of trepidation underscored the dry,
don't-even-think-about-it tone.

She might be a big shot in business, all glitz and tough talk, but to
him she was transparent as glass.  His ability to size up people in a
flash was a lifesaving skill he'd honed over the last fifteen years.

In his line of work, you needed every edge.

"Tin sleeping on the floor," he answered.  "And I'm not that kind of
boy, so don't get any ideas."

Her bug-eyed, slack-jawed response was entertaining for the second or
two it lasted.  Then one dark eyebrow rose and her mouth twisted into a
devastating smirk---contemptuous, haughty, practiced--a smirk that had
probably caused scores of hapless aspiring authors to wet themselves.

That article in People never mentioned that wide, provocative mouth.
That piece on "Extra" didn't show her wriggling and moaning in orgasmic
bliss as she devoured a Sicilian hero with everything on it.  He'd done
his homework, but it clearly wasn't enough.

Why did he have the feeling Zara Sutcliffe had a few more surprises in
store for him?

He stripped off his jeans and turned off the light, then slid into his
cold sleeping bag in nothing but his white briefs.  He shifted onto his
side and shoved the wadded-up jeans under his head, then slipped the
Glock under the jeans for instant access.  He didn't expect guests, but
he knew that the day he let his guard down would probably be his
last.

Zara's face was inches from his, slightly elevated because of the
mattress.  Little light reached them from the streetlamps five stories
below; he could just make out her features.  He wondered if she knew
how innocent she appeared in sleep.

Her warm breath teased his eyelashes.  Her scent wrapped around him, a
lush, sensual blend of some expensive perfume and her own womanly
essence.  She smelled like night-blooming flowers, like illicit
encounters in moonlit gazebos.

He reached up to brush wisps of dark hair off her cheek.  Her skin felt
like satin, bringing to mind those black boxer shorts.  He remembered
how the sleek fabric had hugged her bottom as she spread out her
sleeping bag.  How it had slid up a little, revealing the enticing
under swells of a world-class butt.

He rolled onto his back and contemplated the painful arousal prodding
his sleeping bag.  At times like these he envied the fairer sex, whose
libido, according to popular doctrine, was linked to emotional
factors--issues of love, of trust and respect.

Whereas guys ... well, guys were less complex.  He didn't trust or
respect Zara Sutcliffe, and God knew he didn't love her.  But she sure
as hell turned him on.  Which wasn't going to make what he had to do
any easier.

He had to be careful.  So far, she'd been fairly easy to control.  But
that would change in a heartbeat if she discovered who he really
was--and that his plans for her had nothing to do with keeping her
safe.

Chapter Three

Zara's eyes sprang open.  Her heart slammed painfully, keeping time
with the seesaw wail of a police siren outside, the sound at once far
away and impossibly close.

She blinked into her dark surroundings.  Nothing looked familiar. Where
am I?

Don't panic.

She tried to sit but found herself immobilized, her body snared in a
sacklike cocoon.

She panicked.

Disorientation magnified her terror as she twisted and clawed at the
pillowy fabric encasing her, suffocating her.  Her own breathless
whimpers echoed off the walls of the huge empty room.

Fingers closed on her shoulder and she screamed.  She fought the big,
hot hand pushing her down, the solid pressure of a heavy arm across her
chest, over what she now recognized as a sleeping bag.

"Shh, Zara ... it's all right."  A low voice."  sleep-raspy.

She knew that voice.  That voice meant ... safety.  Her terror and
confusion gradually ebbed as fragments of the past day began to filter
through, snapping together like pieces of a puzzle, forming a pattern
her mind recognized.

Logan.  Safe house.  Mac Byrne.

The crushing sense of shame at her own culpability.

"Hang on a minute."  He shifted off her and fumbled with the side of
her bag nearest him.  She heard' the zipper open, felt the vibration
down the side of her body, the cool air rushing in.

"That better?"  His hand slipped inside her bag, over her midriff,
still heaving as she struggled to calm her breathing.  It felt weighty
and substantial and immensely reassuring.

She nodded and offered a shaky "Yes."  She could just make out his
features in the semidark, his expression surprisingly intimate, almost
compassionate.

Another side of this enigmatic man, or a dangerous illusion, a trick of
the shadows and her own dark fears?

His long hair was loose now, falling around his face past his bare
shoulders, making him appear barbarous, untamed.  A few dark strands
brushed her face.  She'd forgotten how good a man could smell, the
intoxicating essence of pure male animal underlying the civilized
scents of soap and aftershave.

They stared at each other for a full minute, until her initial fear
gave way to a different kind of turmoil.  An uncomfortable awareness
that played havoc with her slowing pulse, kicking up the tempo once
more.

She knew he felt it, too, knew it by the subtle change in his
breathing, the alertness of his gaze, the sudden tension radiating from
his body into the hand still draped on her waist.  His fingers moved,
ever so slightly, and she stopped breathing.

He pulled back abruptly.  Sat on his heels and dragged those long
fingers through his hair, staring into the dark recesses of the
warehouse.

She shivered, missing his heat, berating herself for her foolishness.
She tucked the sleeping bag up under her chin.  "Logan...?"

He looked at her.

"Do you think she's still alive?  My mother?"  Don't shut me out, she
silently begged.  Please give me this one morsel of hope, something to
hang on to.

After a few moments he said carefully, "I have reason to believe Mac
might not want to kill her."

She bit back a sob of relief.  It wasn't a guarantee, but it was more
than she'd had a minute ago.  She knew not to ask for specifics. "Thank
you," she rasped.

He frowned, studying her intently.  Finally he said, "Get some sleep
Zara."  He slid into his sleeping bag, his back to her.

WILLIAM KEPT his expression neutral, his tone of voice bland, as he
addressed his associate across the wide expanse of his black marble
desk.  "You've been very enterprising."

Mac Byrne shrugged lazily, drumming his fingers on his crossed knee.
"What can I tell you?  I'm always one step ahead, anticipating my
clients' needs."

"Yes.  Well."  William leaned forward.  Mac mimicked the posture. "This
takes our arrangement to a whole not her plane, doesn't it?"

Mac raised his palms in unspoken concurrence.  His eyes shone with an
unholy mixture of greed and something William was beginning to suspect
was madness.

He had to proceed carefully.

"Where are you keeping her?"  he asked.

Mac leaned back with a cagey smile.  "Leave the particulars to me.
That's what you pay me for."  William's jaw clenched.  "Yes.  So it
is."  "Speaking of which..."  Mac indicated the solitary object lying
on the desktop: Candy Carmelle's ray gun.  "We'll settle up on this
now, get it out of the way."

William tapped his lips with his steepled index fingers "No.  No, I
don't think so."

Mac's eyes widened.

"I prefer a package deal.  The gun and Candy.  One price for both."

Mac's Adam's apple bobbed.  "That wasn't the agreement."

William smiled grimly.  "Neither was kidnapping.  Seems I
underestimated your initiative.  What are your terms?"

Mac licked his lips.  "Ten million."

"Four."

Mac made a rude noise.  "Eight.  That's my final offer, and I deserve
every penny of it.  I'm taking a hell of a risk here, William.  She can
identify me.  I might have to go into hiding, change my name."  He
tried to stare William down but was the first to blink.  "I don't have
it."  "Bull."

"Not liquid, I mean.  It would take a couple of weeks, minimum, to get
ahold of that kind of cash."

Mac slapped the arm of his chair.  "Lean on someone, dammit!  I'm not
gonna wait two weeks."

William asked, "And if I fail to come up with the money?  For
argument's sake," he added quickly.  "What happens to Candy then?"

Mac's tone of voice was downright guileless.  "She becomes a very sad
story on page five, William."  His sweeping gesture indicated the
headline.  "Former Starlet Found Drowned--Drug Use Suspected."  He
snickered.  "She'll learn what it really means to be washed up."

The image Mac's words conjured was too painful to contemplate.  "That
won't be necessary.  I'm a man of my word.  YoU just make sure nothing
happens to her."

"You just make sure I get my eight rail.  Pronto."  He slouched in his
chair, a cocky smile in place.

"I want to see her.  I want to see for myself that she's unharmed."

"Sorry.  You'll have to take my word on that."  William knew better
than to take this maniac's word on anything, but at the moment he had
no choice.  "Listen.  About her being able to identify you.  Don't give
it a thought.  Once she realizes what a sweet deal she has with me,
she'll kiss you in gratitude.  Turning you in will be the last thing on
her mind."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself.  Must be this obsession of yours,
all those Candy souvenirs you've been collecting for decades.  The
photos, news clippings."  He nodded toward the ray gun.  "Relics from
her film career.  You might've convinced yourself you know what makes
the lady tick, but the truth is, she doesn't know you from Adam, am I
right?"

Something in his sly eyes, the way he said it, put William on the
alert.  Mac was fishing.  This was dangerous territory.

"That's true, of course, but the fact is, I can be very persuasive.
Have you forgotten she's spent the last three years living in some
dilapidated houseboat?  Until Easter, that is."

Mac looked around, taking in the sumptuous furnishings of William's
East Coast office.  "You got a point.  I can't see her squawking once
you install her in that mansion of yours out in Hollywood."

"And unless I miss my guess, the daughter doesn't want her living with
her anymore.  The literary agent.  Zara."

At that, Mac's expression turned chillingly flat, his pupils mere
pinpoints.  His fingers tightened on the ann of his chair.  William
wondered what it was about Zara Sutcliffe that triggered such a
reaction.

His mind raced.  "Zara wasn't home when you grabbed Candy, was she? You
didn't have to... subdue her... ?"

"No.  She was overseas, on business."

William let out the breath he was holding.  He didn't ask how Mac had
managed to purchase the ray gun from Zara while she was out of the
country.  He'd had enough of the man's smarmy evasiveness.

He stood.  "Give me a number where I can reach you."

"Can't do that, but I'll call you every day.  Around noon."  He rose,
too.  "Get moving on the money, William.  Light a fire under
someone."

William didn't offer his hand.  "I will be very displeased if anything
happens to Candy."  He spoke slowly and deliberately.  "Need I tell
you, I possess the resources to more than even the score when something
displeases me."  He watched Mac's face go rigid.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Yes."  He smiled thinly.  "I'm glad we understand each other, Close
the door on your way out."

"DON'T LIE TO ME.  I know he's been in touch with you."  Logan stared
at Madeline Byrne's stiff back as she stirred a pot on the stove.  The
mouth-watering aroma of spicy chili permeated the entire house.

She opened the oven door and checked the golden corn bread swelling in
a cast-iron pan.  "You'll believe what you want to believe, no matter
what we say."

Douglas Byrne spoke from the doorway of the shabby little kitchen.  "If
I'd known you were here to harass us, I wouldn't have let you in."

He sighed.  "Look, I know this isn't easy for you."  "You don't know a
damn thing!"  Douglas stalked toward him.  "What right do you have
barging in here demanding answers!"

Madeline turned around, her face drawn.  "Douglas..."

"I want him out of here!"

Logan held his ground.  He knew they'd go to any lengths to protect
Mac.  "When was the last time you saw him?"

Madeline's faded blue eyes glistened; her mouth quivered.  In that
moment Logan didn't know who he despised more, Mac or himself.  "You
don't get it, do you?"  she whispered.  "You actually expect us to
betray our own son."

"Careful, Maddie," Douglas sneered.  "Anything you say can and will be
used against you.  Isn't that how it works, Agent Byrne?"

Logan stood there staring at his father, absorbing his contempt.  "I
quit the FBI two years ago.  You know that."

"Then why the hell can't you leave your brother alone?  What is this
vendetta you have?  Do you hate Mac that much?"

I don't hate my brother, I love him, he wanted to say.  God help me, I
still love him.

"This isn't about hate.  He's hurting people, Dad.  He's hurting
himself It's just a matter of time before he crosses the line and does
something..."

Something he's already planned.  He thought of Zara Sutcliffe swaddled
in her sleeping bag, trembling under his touch, her brown eyes wide and
liquid in the semidark.

He blinked away the unwelcome image.  "When that day comes--and it will
if no one stops him--then God help him.  God help us all.  There'll be
no saving him then.  Have you forgotten New York State now has a death
penalty?"

Their stricken expressions caused a brief flare of hope that he'd
gotten through to them at last.

He should have known better.  His mother recovered first, approaching
him slowly, hesitantly, as if he were a stranger to be feared.  He felt
something in his chest wrench painfully.  Even after everything, the
horror and heartache of the last two decades, this distance between
them, the soul-deep sense of loss, still tore at him.

She stopped directly in front of him, her face a mask of anguish and
outrage.  "Where's your sense of loyalty?  Don't you know what it means
to stick by your family?  Are you that cold?  I look at you and I
wonder what kind of man I've raised."  Tears spilled from her eyes and
traced the creases of her weary face.

Logan lifted his hands ... and dropped them at his sides without
touching her.  "I know you think you're helping Mac, Mom, but you're
hurting him.  Every time you lie for him, every time you take him in
and shield him from the authorities, you're making it worse."

"He's different!"  she shrieked, gesturing wildly, her face mottled.
"He's not like you.  You can take care of yourself.  Mac needs our
helps"

"I'm trying to help him!"

His father shouted, "By hauling him to jail?"

"Mac won't go to prison.  He belongs in a mental facility.  He's brain
damaged."

"Don't say that," Madeline wailed.  "He's not ... like that.  He's just
different.  Ever since the accident."

Logan didn't bother reminding her that the event that irrevocably
altered the life of an eighteen-year-old Mac Byrne was no accident.

He said, "Mac has kidnapped a woman."

His parents recoiled as if he'd struck them.  Douglas said, "That's a
lie!"

"A sixty-one-year-old woman with two daughters who are worried sick
about her."  He watched his parents exchange uneasy glances.  "I don't
know where he's keeping her," he continued.  "If you have any idea at
all where he might be hiding out..."

His father shook his head mutely.  They both avoided Logan's eyes.  "I
don't believe it," Douglas muttered.

Logan's parents appeared frail, exhausted by the hardships of their
life, not the least of which was loving a son like MacGowan Byrne.
They'd bought this modest little house in Orange County, New York,
thirty-five years ago, when their twin sons were happy, dark-haired
infants and the future glowed with limitless potential.

He wondered if they lay in bed at night sharing memories of those
halcyon days, wishing they could turn back the clock.

He moved to the wall phone and the message board mounted next to it.  A
marker dangled from a string.  "Here's my phone number.  It's a
cellular phone, but it's always on.  Call me if anything OCcurs to you.
Anything."

His mother glanced at the number quickly, almost furtively, as if he'd
inscribed an obscene limerick on the wall of her kitchen.  He wondered
if she'd erase it the minute he left.

They didn't ask him to stay for lunch.  He let himself out quietly,
thinking about how much his brother loved chili and corn bread.

"RUN THIS BY ME AGAIN.  Why exactly do I have to do this?"  Zara's palm
perspired around the small cellular phone.

"You're my best bet to draw Mac out of hiding."

"Because he has nasty things in store for me."  She tried to smile.

Something close to understanding flickered in Logan's eyes.  He didn't
respond but simply pried her stiff, cold fingers from around the phone
and flipped it open.  "You won't have to talk to him, Zara.  You'll get
his answering machine.  He's been careful to avoid his home and office.
This is the only way to get in touch with him."  He punched in some
numbers.  "I'd do it myself if I could."

He handed her the phone.  She told herself she was being ridiculous.
She didn't have to face the guy--she didn't even have to talk directly
to him.  All she had to do was force her voice to remain calm and' You
have reached the office of MacGowan Byrne Ltd."  It was a brisk female
voice.  "Leave a message and your call will be returned as soon as
possible."

As she waited for the beep, Zara forced a couple of deep breaths and
pretended this nightmare wasn't real, that the recipient of her message
wasn't out for her blood.  Logan was betting that Mac didn't know Zara
was on to him.  With any luck, he'd think Zara had just gotten back
into town and didn't know about her mother's kidnapping or the meeting
that nearly ended in Emma's death.

Beep.

"Mac, this is Zara Sutcliffe.  I was wondering if it would be possible
for you to meet me this evening--I've just acquired a couple of pieces
of Hollywood memorabilia that I think you might be interested in."

Logan gestured at her.  Slow down.  Another deep breath.

"You won't be able to reach me this afternoon, but I'm hoping you get
this message in time to meet me at Vincenza's in Little Italy.  Say,
eight o'clock?  See you then."

She snapped the phone closed, squeezed her eyes shut and groaned,
feeling her pulse sprint.  Logan's warm, clean scent filled her
nostrils and she inhaled deeply, comforted by his proximity.  Only when
she felt his hand on the back of her head did she realize she'd slumped
against him.  She opened her eyes and they homed in on the black grip
of his semiautomatic resting in his holster, inches from her face.

Her-head whipped up and she scuttled back a step.  "You did great," he
said.  "I did?  Do you think so?  Do you think he'll get the message in
time?"

"I know he will.  Mac checks his machine several times a day."

She was about to ask how he knew a detail like that before she
remembered that he'd already danced around that question once.

She'd woken early, as soon as the sun had lit the huge warehouse room.
The space next to her on the floor had been empty.  No sleeping bag. No
Logan.

Had she dreamed that strange interlude in the middle of the night?  His
deep, gentle voice, his hand on her waist.  The startling sense of
intimacy.

She'd looked around and found his sleeping bag, neatly rolled and
placed with the luggage.  She'd risen and stretched, listening for
sounds from the bathroom.  Nothing.

Had he left her again?  She'd crossed the cold concrete floor and
verified that' the john was vacant.  When she tried the door through
which she'd entered the warehouse, she saw that, once more, she was
locked in.  The dead bolt needed a key from either side.

He said it was for her protection, but still it rankled.  Special Agent
Logan Pierce was entirely too autocratic for her taste.

Apparently he'd made an early morning breakfast run--she found a sack
of bagels, still warm, a container of cream cheese, a hole of orange
juice and a large cardboard cup of coffee, plus several packets of
sugar, diet sweetener and half-and-half.  Eagerly tugging the lid off
the coffee, she mused that that file at FBI headquarters must not
include the fact that she took her coffee black.

As she ate half a poppy-seed bagel with the thinnest schmeer of cream
cheese--had the man never heard of low fat?  she eyed his duffel.  The
day before, when he'd deposited her like so much baggage and left for
three hours, she hadn't had the nerve to take a peek.

Now she was a half day wear let a few degrees less intimidated and a
whole hell of a lot more frustrated.  And that duffel was just too
tantalizing.

Besides, hadn't this man unapologetically searched not only her luggage
but her home, as well?

The less you know, the better.

"Oh, I don't think so," she murmured, and abandoned her breakfast to
saunter across the room to Agent Pierce's bag.

Rationally she knew he'd never leave anything important lying around
where she could prowl through it.  Still, she admitted to a certain
curiosity about the man himself--the taciturn G-man with the hard
golden eyes.  Her.  irrepressible imagination again.

She approached the big, scraped-up canvas duffel as if it might explode
at the first touch.  No lock.  She grasped the zipper pull and glanced
at the door.  And opened the duffel all the way until it lay gaping
before her.

She bent down to peer inside, afraid to touch anything.  She saw
T-shirts, underwear and socks, jeans, ragged work shoes, a dark hooded
sweatshirt and a plastic garbage bag, apparently for dirty laundry.
Shoving the clothing aside, she spied a few small cartons.  Bullets.
Well, no surprise there.  And a leather contraption, which she soon
identified as a small holster, the kind that could be concealed beneath
a waistband.

A worn leather toilet kit was tucked at the end.  She lifted it out and
shook it, hearing small objects rattle around.  She'd seen his
toothbrush, soap and razor on the rim of the rust-stained sink in the
bathroom, a small bottle of shampoo in the cramped, mildewy shower
stall.  She unzipped the kit and poked at the contents.  A couple of
extra disposable shavers, odds and ends like Band-Aids and Q-Tips.

She smiled, tickled by the ludicrous notion of traveling with a toilet
kit this size.  She herself needed separate bulky bags for her makeup,
toilet des and hair-care appliances.  Not to mention her portable iron
and lighted makeup mirror.

Her fingers brushed against something with a sharp corner.  She pulled
it out and stood staring at a string of condom packets.  Half a dozen
of them.

"Oh my."  Lubricated.  Ultrasensitive.  She peered at the fine print.
Ribbed for her pleasure.

The thought of Agent Pierce ribbed for her pleasure sprang into her
consciousness before she could shoot it down.  When she could breathe
again she carefully refolded the packets, accordion-style, and replaced
them in the kit.  She chewed her lip.  Was that just where they were
before?  Would he notice she'd been through it?  Would he care?

Oh, God.

She'd shoved the kit back in the duffel and yanked the thing closed
with a vengeance.  And turned to her own luggage to find something to
wear.

He'd returned in the early afternoon, with yet more food.  Did he think
if he kept her stomach filled, she wouldn't notice she was a virtual
prisoner?

Now, watching him kneel by his open duffel, inspecting the contents,
she felt her heart squirm into her throat.  His back was to her, and
she watched the play of powerful 'muscles beneath his navy T-shirt. 
She heard the whisper of a zipper and knew he was looking in his toilet
kit.

Just whose damn pleasure were those things ribbed for, anyway?  Was
there some wife or lady friend Somewhere, or did Logan carry the things
around in case he got lucky?

He threw a glance over his shoulder.  "Been going through my stuff,
Zara?"

Her throat tried to close, but she managed to squeak, "No!  God, no!"
She didn't know why she was embarrassed.  He'd felt no compunction
about pawing through her worldly possessions.

He stared at her a moment, expressionless.  He knew.  He turned back to
his duffel and zipped it.  "Just don't mess with the ammo."

Her face was on fire.  She'd never get one up on the man.  Taking a
deep breath, she said, "I want a key to this place."

"No."  He stood and faced her, as implacable as ever.

She stalked up to him.  "Come n, Logan.  I've been cooped up in this--"
she glanced at her dingy surroundings "--'safe house' for twenty-four
hours.  I'm bouncing off the walls.  I don't have my work, which must
be a mountain on my desk by now.  I don't have any books to read or--or
even a newspaper."  Just her own inventive imagination--not the best
companion for her peace of mind at the moment.

"You want a magazine or something, I'll pick it up when I go--"

"I want out of here!  O-u-t!"  She pointed to the door.

"Look, I know this isn't the Plaza, I know you're bored and frustrated,
but I can't have you traipsing all--"

"Give me a little credit.  What dO you think I'm going to do, stand in
the middle of Park Avenue wearing a bull's-eye around my neck?"

"It would be extremely dangerous for you to go anywhere alone."

"I'm not planning any excursions.  I just can't stand being locked in
here like I'm some kind of prisoner.  I'll bet you have a second key to
that dead bolt."

His gaze flicked to the lock in question for a moment as he pondered
her request.  Finally he shoved his hand in his jeans pocket and
produced a key ring.

Zara let out the breath 'she'd been holding.  She held out her palm and
he dropped a brass key in it.

His voice was gruff.  "In case the place goes up in flames while I'm
gone.  Don't even think about stepping foot outside that door unless
I'm with you."

"I appreciate this," she said, knowing it wasn't easy for him to
relinquish total command over the situation and trust her even this'
much.  Deciding to press her luck, she said, "Let me go with you when
you check out the restaurant."

"Out of the question.  I'm not going there to pick up takeout, I'm
trying to flush a dangerous criminal out of hiding.  If he takes the
bait and shows up...,"

He didn't have to say it.  She'd only be in the way.  Might even be in
danger.  Zara hadn't stamped her foot since she was about six, but she
was sorely tempted now.

She asked, "How do you know Mac isn't lurking around my apartment or my
office, looking for me, even as we speak?  You can't be in two places
at once."

She recognized that obdurate expression.  Incommunicado

"So you have associates," she said.  "People working for you.  Or with
you.  Like your pal Lou.  Funny.  I had you figured for a loner.  The
type who doesn't like to rely on anyone else."

That got to him, she could tell.  Did he think he was the only
perceptive one?

She continued, "I have to be able to size people up in my business,
too, Logan."  Or maybe a part of her simply recognized a kindred
spirit.

He crossed his arms over his chest.  "If you're so good at sizing up
people, maybe you've made up your mind.  Am I one of the good guys?"

She pondered that seriously, thought about everything she'd learned
about Logan Pierce in their brief time together.  He was aloof, sure,
and arrogant as hell.  But something in the way he talked about Mac
Byrne told her he was sincere.  A cold obsession underlay his mission
to bring Mac to justice.  What had caused that obsession, she couldn't
guess, but she knew one thing: she wouldn't want to be in Mac Byrne's
shoes.

"Yes," she said.  "You're one Of the good guys."  "Do you believe I
know what I'm doing?"  "Yes."

"Then don't question me when I tell you how things have to be.  This
isn't some game we're playing, Zara.  Your mother's life is in danger,
in case you've forgotten."

She sucked in a deep breath.  "As if I could."  She knew what he was
thinking.  That she was shallow, selfish.  It was the same message that
had been drummed into her her whole life."  Maybe it was true.  Look at
the tragedy her actions had reaped.

Her eyes burned and she turned to stare out the window.  She didn't
have her freedom or her peace of mind.  At least she could try to hold
on to her pride.

He was silent a long while.  Finally he said quietly, "Where would you
like to go?"

She spun to look at him, certain she must have misheard.

"Mac won't be looking for yOU anywhere but your usual haunts.  I guess
it wouldn't hurt for you to get out and clear the cobwebs.  As long as
you're with me.  Don't even think about going out on your own."

His thunderous expression reinforced the warning.  He grabbed his
lightweight windbreaker and shrugged into it, zipping the bottom few
inches to keep his gun concealed.  "But after this, I don't want to
hear any more whining.  Got it?"

She grabbed her purse, giddy with anticipation.  "Got it."  She slipped
into a pair of crimson pumps that matched her short linen sheath dress,
and retrieved her heavy silk jewelry roll from her Pullman bag.  "Just
a sec."."  She could no more venture into public un accessorized than
she could negotiate multimillion-dollar deals in her bathrobe.

Logan watched her sort through her trinkets.  "I thought you said you
sold all your jewelry."

"I did.  This stuffs all costume."  She found the earrings she'd been
hunting for and waggled them at him.  "Five bucks on the sidewalk in
Chinatown.  What do you think?"  The silver earrings were adorned with
ponderous, dangling red and black glass beads.  The ear wires were
extra long, eliminating the need for hooks or clasps.  She slid them
into her pierced ears.  "I'm ready."

LOgan frowned, studying her ears.  He slowly approached her.

She said, "You don't like them?"

He stopped scant inches in front of her and lifted his hand to the left
earring.  She heard the beads clink together, felt his fingertips graze
her neck.  His touch was so gentle, she felt dizzy.

"They're heavy," he murmured, stating at the beads.

She didn't trust herself to speak.

"Don't they hurt?"

"No," she managed to whisper.

He carefully pulled on the long wire, withdrawing it from her earlobe
with excruciating slowness.

The world fell away.  Nothing existed but that one pinpoint of
sensation where the silver filament slid through her flesh.

When it was free he studied the glittering' gewgaw, peering at it as if
it could tell him something about its wearer.  It looked incongruous
nestled in his huge palm.

At length he brought it to her ear again.  When she realized he meant
to replace it himself, she started, on the verge of objecting.  But
instead she stood paralyzed as he gently grasped her earlobe and
touched the end of the wire to it.

She swallowed hard.  His eyes were riveted to his task, which he
approached with absorption.  She nearly flinched when she felt the wire
penetrate.  He pushed it through as slowly and meticulously as he'd
removed it.  When he was done, every nerve in her body hummed.  He
flicked the beads and watched them dance, and met her eyes at last.

"Let's go."

Chapter Four

"I haven't been here in years."  Zara stared up at the full-scale model
of a blue whale-that hung suspended over her head in a diving pose.
This replica had fascinated her as a child.  She couldn't imagine any
animal being that huge.  Nearly the length of the enormous exhibit
hall, it had small, glassy eyes and white spots on its flanks.

"I come here a lot," Logan said, gazing around the huge, dimly lit
Ocean Life and Biology of Fishes hall, a popular exhibit at the Museum
of Natural His' tory.

The room was two stories high.  A walkway circled the upper level,
which featured educational displays in glass cases, above which hung
life-size replicas of sharks, stingrays and swordfish in lighted
niches.  Zara and Logan were on the lower level, where dioramas of
marine animals in their natural habitats were set along the perimeter.
Each life-size display was behind glass, backlit and painstakingly
detailed.

Zara's father had brought her-and Emma to the museum once when they
were seven.  She remembered that trip vividly.  She returned a couple
of times in the years she'd lived in New York, and each time she felt
the same childlike wonder.

During that visit with her father, Zara had been on her best
behavior--or tried to be.  As usual, he'd found abundant reasons to
chastise her.  Don't touch the dinosaur skeleton, Zara.  Slow down and
wait for your sister, Zara.  Keep your voice down, Zara.

When she grew to adulthood and learned the term control freak, she
began to gain a better perspective on John Sutcliffe: She wondered if
she'd ever understand the man who had sired her and Emma.  How could
family members be so different?  He was five years in his grave and
still she heard his imperious voice cataloging her shortcomings, felt
his sharp, condemning glare at the most inopportune moments.  "We can
leave," Logan said.

She snapped out of her reverie.  "What?"

"You don't look exactly thrilled to be here."

"I am.  Trust me.  I was just thinking..."  She faltered and he raised
his eyebrows.  "I was thinking about my father."

"Seals and walruses remind you of your father?"  "Maybe that fellow."
She nodded toward a display of a polar bear, fangs bared.  On the ice
floe near it was a dead ribbon seal, with blood flowing from its
mouth.

Logan said, "He was strict?"

"You could say that.  Emma never had trouble living up to his
expectations.  But me ... well, after a while I think it just kind of
turned into this self-fulfilling prophesy.  I knew nothing I did would
please him, so why bother trying?  And, too, I found the more
outrageous I was, the more I got to him.  I think he was the reason I
drove myself so hard to succeed careerwise.  That was something he
respected, I knew.  Money.  Success.  But even that wasn't enough."

"Is that why you and your sister ended up different?  Your father's
warped ideas about child rearing?"

"I guess so."  Why was she opening up to him like this?  "What else
could cause twins to develop such distinct personalities except the way
they were raised?  Nurture versus nature and all that."

After a moment Logan said, "Other factors have been known to come into
play."  He was staring at the bear's menacing fangs, the soft light
from the diorama highlighting his strong features.

"Like what?"

He was silent so long, she thought he hadn't heard her.  Finally he
said, "Chemical imbalanCes.  Brain damage.  That sort of thing."

"Oh.  Sure, I guess so.  That doesn't apply to Emma and me, though.
Thank God.  Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

His eyes had been focused on the bear.  Now they found her reflection
in the glass.  "No."

He started walking again, and they slowly made the circuit past the
giant octopus, the pearl divers, sea otters and dolphins, toward the
stairs leading to the second level and the exit.

He said, "It must've been rough for your father to raise two kids
alone.  After Candy left him."

"He left our day-to-day care in the hands of nannies His involvement
extended to lectures on behavior and character development.  And as for
Mom, you should hear her side of the story.  I grew up thinking she'd
abandoned us--that's what Dad told us."  "That must're been rough."

"When he died five years ago, Emma and I tracked More down.  By that
time we both knew what an overbearing son of a bitch our father had
been.  When Morn told us how he'd ruthlessly wrested custody from her,
we believed her.  It was in character."

"Guy sounds like a gem.  At least you had your sister."

She sighed.  "Emma and I were never close.  Even as children.  I ...
I'm not proud of that.  Dad was always comparing.  us always pitting us
against each other, and of course, I always fell short.  But I can't
lay all the blame on him.  I'm not an impressionable child anymore, I'm
a grown woman.  I could're tried harder to undo the damage, to ... make
up for lost time with Emma.  To ... I don't know..."  Her throat
tightened.  "To get to know her, I guess."  She met his eyes.  "But
I've always loved her, Logan."

"It works both ways.  She could've made the effort, too."  They walked
side by side up the steps.

"Things are going to change between us.  I'll make sure of that.  When
this whole mess is over, I'm going to do whatever I have to, to make it
right with her.  If anything happens to Emma--" She choked on the
words, her tears too close to the surface.

Logan grabbed her elbow and pulled her to one side of the exit.  He
glanced into the distance a moment as if battling his impulses: "Do you
remember scheduling an appointment with Gage Foster?"

Her mind flipped over, trying to absorb the abrupt change in subject.
"Gage Foster?  The novelist?  What about him?"

"You were supposed to meet with him, but you got called away to
Australia.  Does any of this ring a bell?"

"Well, sure.  I've been after Foster for months.  Me and every other
agent in this city.  Have you read Incision?"

"Yep."

"What did you think?"

"Damn good medical thriller."

Her excitement over the prospect of adding this New York Times best
selling author to her list momentarily eclipsed her worries for Emma
and Candy.  "I've been wild to bring Foster on board with my agency.
Pleaded with him to come up from Arkansas to talk about it.  Then this
thing with Maxine Moore came up and I had my secretary, Tina, cancel
the appointment.  Now I'll have to reschedule and hope he--"

"Tina didn't call him in time.  Foster flew up for the meeting."

"What?  But I wasn't there!"

"No, but Emma was."

"Emma?"  Her head throbbed with the effort of following this convoluted
discussion.

"He showed up at your office as planned--"

"Oh, God."

"--and so did Emma."

"Wearing my clothes.  For the meeting with Mac, when she had to pretend
to be me.  I asked her to go to my office to pick up the ray gun. Don't
tell me.  Gage Foster thought she was me."

"It's a long story.  Maybe you'll read about it in his next book.  The
point is, if it weren't for Foster, Emma wouldn't be alive."

"He--he saved her life?"

Logan held up a hand, forestalling the volley of questions poised to
leap off her tongue.  "I just thought you'd want to know she wasn't
alone, that she had an ally.  Has an ally."

"Has?"

Logan smiled, a slow, revealing grin.

"They hit it off?.  Gage and Emma?  I don't believe it."  Shy,
unprepossessing Emma and a wealthy, semi-reclusive, hunky
surgeon-turned-novelist?  The man Zara thought of as the Golden
Cowboy?

"Believe it.  She'll have a hell of a tale to tell when you see her
next."

She shook her head in wonder.  "Why are you being so forthcoming all of
a sudden?  Why are you telling me all this?"

He scowled.  "I shouldn't.  The less you know--" "Don't say it.  Just
one more question.  Is Gage still in New York?  Is he staying with Emma
at her place in Queens?"  One look at his face told her she'd gotten as
much out of him as she could.  For the moment.  She paused, collecting
her thoughts.  "Thanks, Logan.  It makes it easier, knowing she didn't
have to face... whatever she faced... alone."

He sighed.  Regretting his revelations?  No matter.  She knew more now
than she did five minutes ago.  Not only about Emma's situation, but
about Logan, as well.  Despite the well-honed aura of surly
inflexibility, he was human after all.

She couldn't help wondering what had made him the way he was.  What had
his childhood been like?  Why had he joined the FBI?  And the question
foremost in her mind: why was he so fixated on apprehending Mac Byrne?
It wasn't what he said so much as the look in his eye.  He was close to
this Case--too close?  Was his judgment affected?  Could his zeal put
her in danger?

Wordlessly he placed his palm on the small of her back and steered her
through the exit into the Invertebrates hall.  From there they passed
through the main lobby and into the North American Mammals exhibit.

Here, too, the models were set against ultra realistic backdrops,
complete with foliage and other natural elements.  It was easy to
imagine these deer, bison and caribou as live animals in the wild.

They made their way through the hall and down a side corridor past
coyotes and skunks.  Zara stopped dead at the next display, Here two
wolves sprinted across a snow-covered landscape.  They were posed in
mid leap frozen in a lethal lunge toward the glass--toward her.

The exhibit was eerily dim, a twilight scene that held her spellbound.
She couldn't make out the animals' eye color in the gloom, or the
teeth.  Nevertheless, it was all too easy to imagine herself some
hapless woodland creature transfixed by two pairs of pale, predatory
eyes, by the sight of bared fangs going for her jugular.

She sensed a third pair of wolf eyes on her.

"We have to be getting back," he murmured, his breath fluttering her
hair.  "I need to get to Vincenza's well before eight."

She dragged her gaze from the exhibit, breaking the spell.  "Do you
think he'll show?"

"I sure as hell hope so.  And if you want to get your life back anytime
soon, you'd better hope so, tOO.  '

HE DIDN'T SHOW.

Logan had selected Vincenza's because, together, he and Lou could
effectively, and discreetly, surveil the restaurant and its immediate
environs.

PerhaPs Mac had suspected a trap.  Perhaps he, too, had been out there
somewhere, watching the front door, waiting for Zara to arrive.

Logan stayed a couple of hours, till it was clear his quarry had eluded
him.  Just as he'd waited in vain yesterday after leaving his parents'
home, certain they'd expected Mac for lunch.  A sense of unreality had
suffused him as he found an unobtrusive spot down the block to observe
the house.  Was he really doing this?  Staking out his childhood
home?

What kind of man have I raised?  his mother wanted to know.  The kind
of man who spied on his own flesh and Mood, on the people who gave him
life and raised him, he could have answered, sickened that their
misguided sense of duty had driven him to it.

He suspected that as soon as Logan left, they'd called Mac and warned
him 'to stay away.

After unlocking the chain-link fence and parking the BMW near the
warehouse's loading bay, Logan let himself into the building he
laughably called a "safe house" and rode the creaky old freight
elevator to the fifth floor.  He unlocked the door, questioning his
sanity for giving Zara a key.  How in the hell had she managed that
one?

Movement drew his eye to the middle of the room.  Zara was exercising,
using a sleeping bag as a mat.  She was dressed in skintight purple
bike shorts and one of those little sports bras that doubled as a gym
top.  Canary yellow.  She was doing crunches, lying on her back with
her fingers linked under her head, raising her shoulders and bent legs
together.

He watched her abdominal muscles tighten with each rhythmic crunch, her
breath coming in sharp puffs.  Her skin glistened and her short hair
was spiky with sweat.  She lay back on the sleeping bag a few moments,
panting, then gracefully rolled up to sit cross-legged.  She grabbed
the hand towel she'd placed nearby and wiped her face,

"He didn't show," she said.  It wasn't a question.  "No."  In seconds
he was out of both his windbreaker and his holster.  He tossed them on
the desk and sprawled on the bare mattress.  The shade of the nearby
floor lamp was tipped toward the wall, so his eyes were spared.

"What do we do now?"  she asked.

You don't want to know.

He turned his head and stared at her sitting there in the shadows, her
eyes big and dark and trusting.  You brought me here for my protection,
right?  she'd asked him.  He hadn't denied it.

His plan had made sense days ago, before he'd met the lady.  Now,
somehow, the idea of using her that way seemed a lot less palatable.

She said, "Maybe ... maybe there's something I can do.  Some way I can
help."

Was she thinking along the same lines he was?  Was the offer sincere?
He doubted it.  This wasn't the type of woman who willingly placed
herself in harm's way, for any reason.  Not a spoiled, self-absorbed
fashion plate like Zara Sutcliffe.  This type of woman was accustomed
to having other people do her dirty work for her.  People like Logan
BYrne.  With that in mind, he couldn't help baiting her.

"Like what, Zara?"  He rolled onto his side, propped his head on a
hand.  "How do you figure on helping out?"

She didn't answer.  Probably trying to find a way to weasel out of her
halfhearted offer.  Good luck.  When the time came, she'd have to be
involved, despite her reservations--and his.  He just hoped he could
count on her to keep her head.

He said, "Do you usually exercise at night?"  "No, in the mornings. 
But I was nervous, waiting for you to come back, wondering what
happened. Couldn't keep my mind on the novel I was reading."  They'd
purchased a few paperbacks and magazines on their way back from the
museum.  "So I decided to give myself a good workout."

"Did it help?"

"No."  She came to her feet.  "I'm going to go shower off."

The next minute he lay there listening to the muted sounds of the
needle spray pelting fiberglass.  The sound shifted, and he pictured
Zara moving around in the shower stall, soaping up.  She probably had
to contort herself a bit in that tiny stall, as he had, to get
thoroughly clean.

Was she rinsing off now?  Running her hands over her body, making sure
she got all the soap off?.  Cleanliness is next to horniness.

"You're pathetic, Byrne," he growled.  He'd never even been attracted
to polished corporate types like Zara Sutcliffe.  Must be those naughty
undies she wore.  When you knew that underneath a woman's
don't-mess-with-me power suit you'd find a half-cup see-through push-up
bra and matching garter belt, your interest couldn't help but be
piqued.

Along with other things.  Logan contemplated his bulging fly with
disgust.  "This isn't part of the game plan," he told his erection.
"Settle down."

The shower stopped and his mind's eye pictured her toweling off,
carefully drying every nook and cranny.  A half minute later the
bathroom door opened and he rolled onto his stomach with a muttered
curse, resting his head on his folded arms.

He heard her quietly replacing items in her luggage, then nothing.  The
light touch of her hand on his back made him flinch.

"I thought you might be asleep,"" she murmured.  He felt her sit next
to him, felt her soap-and-shampoo-scented warmth.  Turning his head, he
saw she was wearing a black tank top and orange satin boxers.

"You look like Halloween."

"Not the fashion statement I was aiming for."

He reached over and plucked the slippery satin.

"How many colors do you have these in?"

"How many colors are there?"

He smiled, deciding he liked satin boxers on women.  On this woman at
least.

She half turned to bend and look him in the eye.  "I'm serious, Logan.
What's the next step?  How are we going to find my mother?"

"Here's what I want you to do."  How much should he tell her?  "You're
going to call Mac's machine again.  Apologize for missing the meeting
and reschedule.  Something came up."

"Will he believe that?"

"Probably not.  He might figure you're on to him, maybe even that'
you've contacted the police."

"I've been thinking that might not be such a bad idea."

"The cops?"

She nodded.

He rolled to his side and propped himself on an elbow, comfortably
flaccid once more.  "Listen to me, Zara.  If Mac suspects the police
are involved, he might just snap."

"And hurt my mother."

"Yes."

"But you said he doesn't want to kill her."

"I don't think he does, but you've gotta understand, the guy's
unstable.  Unpredictable.  Anything can put him over the edge."

"He won't show up to meet me if he thinks I'm on to him."

Logan chose his words carefully.  "He might, with the right
incentive."

"What would that be?"

"We'll discuss that when the time comes."

"I feel so helpless, sitting around here while Morn is God knows where,
at the mercy of that..."  She sighed raggedly.

"Something tells me Candy Carmelle can hold her own."

"She's spunky, it's true.  Streetwise.  But..."

He heard the catch in her voice.  His hand automatically settled on
hers.  Her wet hair was combed back, but some strands fell on her
forehead.  He pushed them back and she met his eyes, her own shiny.  He
sensed she held herself together with an effort.

Whatever else he might think of her, she wasn't devoid of feeling.  As
much as he hated to admit it, there was more to Zara Sutcliffe than the
one-dimensional business shark profiled in the media.  This lady 'was
no caricature.

Her voice was hoarse.  "I don't fall apart easily.  I mean, it takes a
lot.  I can put up with ... well, practically anything if it's in
normal doses."  A watery chuckle.  "But when the stress just keeps up,
with no end in sight ... well, I feel like I'm going to crack."  Her
candidness' moved him.

She said, "That's how it was with my divorce.  It was ... ugly.  And it
dragged on so long.  Tony was so damn vicious, so greedy."  She took a
deep breath, not meeting his eyes.  "I want to be strong, Logan.  I
want to help you, not hinder you.  I just hope..."  She shrugged
helplessly.  "I just hope I can.  For More."

He held her quivering chin and made her look at him.  "I'l!  help you
get through it," he murmured, and smiled gently.  "You help me and I'll
help you.  Deal?"

Her eyes brimmed.  She looked about twelve.  "Deal," she whispered.

He leaned toward her without intending to and touched his lips to hers.
He felt a little shock course through her.  He knew he should move
back, break this kiss, which had started as a token of comfort, but he
couldn't.  Her eyes closed and overflowed at last, twin tears trailing
down her cheeks.

He relinquished her soft lips and pressed his mouth to the glistening
track of a tear.  His hand caressed the back of her neck, damp from the
wet ends of her hair.

Logan didn't hear her soft breaths, but he felt them, fanning his
cheek," his ear.  Felt her breasts brush his chest in the same agitated
rhythm.  His hand slid down her back to press her to him, to trap her
softness against him.

He claimed her mouth again, harder, fiercer, the warnings of his
rational mind a faint whisper under the roaring din of his hunger.  He
opened her, sought her tongue,.  explored her mouth in a ruthless
possession.  She stiffened, and instinctively he intensified the kiss,
nudging the answering passion he sensed within her.

Pressing her into the mattress, he angled his body over hers.  She
gasped and wrenched her head aside, her nails like talons through his
T-shirt.  He barely heard her breathless "No!"

Logan went still.  He muttered a curse, rolled off her and got to his
feet, putting some distance between them.  She sat up shakily and
wrapped her arms around her knees.  She was ashen, avoiding his eyes,
prompting him to replay the last few moments in his mind.  His gut
knotted.  What did she think he was going to do--force her?

After a hellish silence he said, "That wasn't supposed to happen."

She said nothing, just tightened her grip on her knees.

"It won't, again."

She nodded stiffly.

He blew out a sharp breath and shook his head at his own folly, his
loss of control.  He crossed to an open window and filled his lungs,
tried to chase away the lingering fog of desire.  He said, "This is a
an awkward arrangement we have here, Zara, the two of us cooped up
together.  Hopefully it won't be for long.

Meanwhile, let's just ... keep our distance."

No reply.

"Will you say something?"  he barked.  "Agreed."  It was a hoarse
whisper.  Her eyes flicked to him, then away.  She opened her mouth to
say something, but didn't.

"All right, then," he said.

He laid out his sleeping bag--near the windows, a good fifteen feet
from the mattress--and fled the building for a long, solitary walk.  He
returned an hour and a half later to find the lights still on and Zara
sound asleep in her bag, clutching a book, a psychological thriller
that had just come out in paperback.  He smiled, imagining the valiant
battle she must have waged to keep her eyes open.

He got ready for bed and crawled into his own bag, as jumpy as when
he'd walked out, resigned to lying awake most of the night.  He envied
Zara the oblivion of sleep.

Chapter Five.

Candy stared at the ceiling of her basement prison, tracking the sound
of Mac's pacing one flight overhead.  Whenever the footfalls reached
the wall, they paused for a few moments, and she imagined him gazing
out a window.  Was it nice outside?  No light made it past the plywood
boarding up the basement window.

Mac was talking on the phone, she could tell.  Once in a while some
loud exclamation made it to her ears.  She glanced around, not entirely
sure what she was looking for.  She went into the small laundry room
and scanned the assortment of household detritus piled near the
furnace.

In seconds she was back in the main room, dragging a straight chair
near the wall.  She stepped up on it and lifted her find, a three-foot
section of PVC piping.  She pressed one end to the ceiling--the
undersides of the upstairs floorboards.  She nearly toppled contorting
herself to angle her ear to the other end.  But it paid off.

"have a deal, William!"

Who's William?

"Save your threats," Mac snarled.  "Trying to live up to your name,
huh?  You wanna play hardball, I'll show you hardball.  Your precious
Candy Carmelle with two little Xs for eyes."

Candy felt a wave of icy dread even as she asked herself, Whose
precious Candy Carmelle?  Who could he be talking to?  Only Emma and
Zara would care about her fate.  Could William be the mysterious
"cowboy" who'd given Mac such a walloping?  Somehow she doubted it. 
Her side was beginning to cramp from her awkward position.

"Then keep your end of the bargain.  Two days, William.  You've got two
days to get me the money."  Candy swallowed hard.

A long pause.  "Four, then.  Exactly ninety-six hours from now I better
be eight million dollars richer or she's dead."

Eight million!  She nearly lost her footing on the chair.  Who did she
know with eight million dollarS!

He said, "I'll be in touch."  Immediately his heavy foOtfalls cut a
path to the basement door.  Candy leapt from the chair and shoved the
pipe under the sofa as the key' sd raped and the door flew open.

Mac pounded down the steps and stopped short when he saw her.  She knew
she was flushed, breathing hard.  His eyes narrowed.

"Aerobics," she said, jogging in place as if she were cooling down.
"High impact.  You oughta try it."

His gaze horned in on her body, bouncingly displayed in his own short
terry cloth bathrobe.  She could see the internal struggle; he didn't
want to find a woman a quarter century older than himself attractive.

Touch luck, she thought.  She was still a hot item.  "Where are your
clothes?"  he asked.

"Washer.  I took a sponge bath at the utility sink, but I didn't want
to put my dirty things back on.  I found this in the dryer.  Didn't
think you'd mind.  You don't mind, do you, Mac?"

He didn't respond, just lifted the tray with her empty breakfast dishes
and disappeared upstairs.

"WHY CAN'T I just talk to her?"

"Why can't you just trust my judgment?"  Logan slid his gun into his
shoulder holster and picked up his windbreaker.

"Because she's my sister!"

"I thought you realized I know what I'm doing, Zara.  Don't you think I
have reasons for my decisions?  Or do you think I get my rocks off
playing the tyrant?"

"Maybe."

He threw up his hands.  "Why the hell am I explaining myself to you?
You'll talk to Emma when this whole thing blows over.  Not a minute
sooner."

She trailed him to the desk, where he'd left his keys and phone. "Where
are you going?"  Surly silence greeted this query.  "When will you be
back?"

"Tonight's bowling league, remember, dear?  Keep the meat loaf warm and
kiss the kids good-night for me."

She leveled what she hoped was a withering glare, even as her face
Warmed, He was right, damn him, she did sound like some shrewish
housewife!

He slipped his slim little cellular phone in a pocket of his
windbreaker.  How she wished he'd get careless and leave it behind!  He
wagged a finger at her.  "Remember, don't open the door for anyone."

"I won't, dear," she said in cloying tones.  "Oh, and don't forget to
take out the garbage, precious."  She grabbed the paper sack containing
the remains of their dinner--Chinese takeout--and tossed it at him.
Hard.  Grinning, he caught it one-handed, unlocked the door and was
gone.

She moved to the windows and stood staring down on the quiet street. It
was 8:00 p.m. on Sunday, and this industrial neighborhood was nearly
deserted.  The.  sky was a bruised purplish hue, and the long shadows
in the warehouse had given way to a pervasive gloom.  But she didn't
want to turn on the light just yet.  The dark was where her deepest
thoughts dwelled.  She could corral them' better on their home turf.

That afternoon she'd left another message on Mac Byrne's answering
machine, apologizing for missing their meeting at Vincenza's and
promising to call the next day to reschedule.

She hoped she'd sounded convincing, but she was so bleary and
exhausted, it was hard to judge.  After Logan had stepped out last
night, she'd drifted off while reading, only to be booted awake by a
chilling dream in which her parents argued about her and Emma.  Dad,
bombastic and cruel; Morn, tearful, pleading.

Candy had left them when she and Emma were just over a year old.  Could
this dream be some deep seated memory or just a cruel trick of her
overtaxed mind?

She'd fallen asleep with the light on but woke up with it off.
Squinting into the gloom, she'd made out the hump of Logan's sleeping
bag under the windows.  She'd found solace in his presence, just
knowing she wasn't alone.

Once she was awake, further sleep had eluded her.  Her mind had raced,
her roller-coaster imagination conjuring one horrific scenario after
another.  Her only consolation had been in knowing she wasn't the only
sleepless one.  Logan's restless shifting and irregular breathing had
given him away.

Ironically, that wretched night 'had preceded a pleasant, even serene,
day.  She and Logan had spent the morning chatting and noshing and
reading the Sunday New York Times like some old married couple.  She'd
told him much more about herself than she ever meant to.  Despite his
often rigid demeanor, there was something about him that invited
confidences, impelled her to open up.  As different as they were, she
sensed a kindred spirit.

She'd told him about her upbringing at the hands of John Sutcliffe,
remembered things she'd long forgotten, painful incidents she'd managed
to bury beneath the slick veneer she presented to the outside world. It
had been a catharsis, sharing some of that.  She'd come away with one
inescapable truth, something she'd been reluctant to acknowledge: her
father had been an unrivaled son of a bitch.

He'd raised his daughters in an inflexible environment of strict
discipline and emotional manipulation.  He'd wrested custody of Emma
and Zara from their mother, not for the girls' sake, but because Candy
had had the temerity to leave him.  His daughters had become spoils of
war.  It hadn't mattered that Candy had been a good mother.  It hadn't
mattered that her babies needed her.

In the end, John Sutcliffe had controlled everything and everyone
around him.  Had he died happy?

God help her, she hoped not.

She'd told Logan about her unhappy marriage.  Not all of it--there were
some things she'd never speak off

But the rest she'd shared with him during that long, lazy day, and in
his understated way he'd seemed interested.  He'd asked leading
questions and 'actually listened to the answers.

Naturally she'd asked him about his own life.  What had his childhood
been like?  How had he gotten involved with the FBI?  He'd neatly
dodged most of her questions, but in so doing revealed more about
himself than she thought he meant to.  She'd detected traces of the man
within, even in his evasions.  Anguish, pride, betrayal.  They were all
there.

She'd been left with the conviction that she and Logan were connected
on some level.  He was a loner, and in her own way, so was she.  She'd
learned the hard way never to rely on' anyone else for emotional
fulfillment.  Everyone she'd ever trusted with her tender feelings had
let her down: father, sister, husband, even her mother, though not by
choice.  As far as she was concerned, she was on her own for the
duration.

Logan had embraced that particular sentiment with a telling enthusiasm.
Never trust anyone, he'd said, and you won't be disappointed.

Zara stood at the window and watched him emerge onto the sidewalk. Even
from five stories up, he was impressive, with his wide shoulders and
powerful, long-legged stride.

He looked up as he passed, directly at her.  Had he known she was
watching?  Had he sensed her eyes on him?  A funny little smile crossed
his face' before he disappeared from View.

You'll talk to Emma when this whole thing blows over.  Not a minute
sooner.

Arrogant man.  What possible reason could he have for forbidding her to
communicate with her sister?  She just wanted to assure herself she was
okay, as he claimed.  A reasonable request.

A tiny voice inside whispered, He's afraid of what Emma might tell you.
Afraid of what you might learn about the case--or perhaps about Logan
himself

Zara only had his word that Emma was safe.  If she'd been hurt ... or
worse ... was it possible he'd conceal that from her?  He was charged
with protecting her, keeping.  her here at this safe house.  He had to
know that if she suspected Emma needed her, she'd be anything but
docile and easy to manage, as she had been the last two days.

The more she thought about it, the more her suspicions blossomed,
though she had a hard time reconciling that brand of duplicity with the
complex, haunted man she was beginning to know.  Still, she refused to
kid herself.  He had a job to do.  She had no doubt that he was capable
of manipulating the truth, if it made that job easier.

She looked up and down the block.  Only when she spotted it did she
realize what she'd been looking for.  The telephone booth beckoned like
the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.  Two minutes and a quarter
could buy her peace of mind.  She had the phone number for Emma's new
house in Queens in her address book.

She moved quickly.  Zara Sutcliffe hadn't gotten where she was by being
indecisive.  That was her sister's specialty.  She chose not to dwell
on the fact that she'd promised Logan she wouldn't leave the building
without him.  Well, that wasn't entirely accurate.  He'd ordered her
not to leave.  A little smile tugged at her lips.  She didn't recall
promising anything.

She rode the big, rickety elevator to the first floor and let herself
out of the building, alert for any sign of danger.  In the glow of the
streetlights she saw only one other person, an unkempt man swaying on
his feet, muttering to himself and gesticulating with a bottle wrapped
in a brown bag.

She made it to the end of the block in seconds, but it seemed like the
longest trek of her life.

Damn Agent Pierce for making her paranoid in her own beloved city.

She reached the phone booth, if the abbreviated version in use nowadays
could be called a booth.  She fished her address book out of her purse
and dropped a quarter in the slot.  After one ring a recording kicked
in, in a voice eerily similar to her own.  She;d never gotten used to
that.

"You have reached 555-6439.  I'm sorry I cannot come to the phone right
now..."

Zara rolled her eyes.  Her first order of business would be to help her
staid twin sister jazz up her message.

"If you leave your name and phone number at the tone, I'll return your
call as soon as possible."  Zara waited impatiently for the beep.

"Emma, it's Zara.  Dammit, I wish you were home.  I got into town on
Friday.  Seems all hell broke loose while I was gone..  I just need ...
I need to talk to you.  You can't reach me.  I'll try calling back
later .... "

She squeezed her eyes shut, appalled by the prospect of slinking back
up to that warehouse with nothing to show for this defiant excursion.

"Listen, I'll--i'll be there soon.  At your place.  It's, uh--" she
checked her watch "---eight-twenty now.  I should be there within about
forty-five minutes.  Okay?  If you get in, sit tight!"

She replaced the receiver.  She must be nuts.  What if Logan returned
while she was gone?  She had no idea how long he'd be out.

The hell with him, she decided.  Hadn't he forced her to take matters
into her own hands with his "Me Tarzan" routine?

Knowing few taxis would be cruising this side street at this hour, she
hurried to Tenth Avenue and bolted into the street to snag the first
vacant cab she spied.  The ride to Queens was interminable.  She'd
never been to Emma's new home.  At first she thought the cabbie had
brought her to the wrong place.  But no, the address was fight.  It was
a one-story brick-and-frame bungalow with a tiny, weedy lawn and a
rusted chain-link fence.  No lights on.  Emma wasn't home yet.

"Wait here," she told the driver, hoping she could find a way to get
into the house.  She tried the front door and found it unlocked.  She
groaned at her sister's trusting spirit.  "You aren't in the wilds of
Maine anymore, Emma.  You're a New Yorker now, you'll have to learn to
lock up."  Still, she was grateful, just this once, for Emma's naY
vet

Zara paid the driver and sent him on his way, then let herself into the
hovel her sister called home.  She couldn't see much in the dark, and
she groped for a light switch.

When she flicked it on, her own horrified gasp broke the silence.  The
place had been torn apart.  "Oh, my God..."  she whimpered as she took
in the disarray that had once been a living room.  Furniture upended,
bookcases toppled, spewing enough beat-up paperbacks to carpet the
floor.

Had Emma been home when the place was broken into?  If so, where was
she now?

Common sense dictated she leave immediately.  The intruder might still
be in-the house.  But for all she knew, her sister could be here, too,
hurt or unconscious.  Needing her help.  She had to look.

She' scanned the place for a weapon and came up with a pair of sewing
shears lying amid a jumble of craft supplies.  Gingerly she picked her
way through the mess.

Emma had obviously been in the midst of unpacking from her move.
Meticulously labeled cartons were strewn around, spilling their
contents: Nonfiction, A-G.  Mysteries, H-P.  A bark of hysterical
laughter burst from her.  Her sister still arranged her books by the
author's last name.  She'd always loved whodunits.

A carton labeled Craft World lay upended near a mound of magazines.
Emma had written freelance craft articles for the publication until its
recent demise had forced her to take a staff writing position with
Crafty Lady magazine here in New York.  Hence the move from Maine to
Queens.  She knew Emma relished the independence of freelance work and
had dreaded the new in-house job, but financial considerations had
forced her to accept it.

Even amid the horror of the devastation surrounding her, she couldn't
help noticing the squalid furnishings and tacky wallpaper.  Had they
come with the place or had Emma actually selected them?  She thought of
her own luxurious penthouse apartment on East Eighty-sixth Street in
Manhattan.  How long would she last in a dump like this?

Then again, she thought, slogging through the chaos to the rooms
beyond, she herself now called a grubby, roach-infested warehouse home.
She had to admit, Emma's green-flocked wallpaper looked downright
swanky by comparison.

She toured the tiny, antiquated kitchen, the utilitarian bathroom and
the two bedrooms, one of which Emma obviously planned to turn into an
office.  They, too, had been ransacked.

Her fears were unfounded.  No bogeyman leapt from the shadows.  The
place was deserted.

"Emma, where are you, honey?"  she breathed, tossing the scissors on
her sisters nightstand.  "Where are you?"  She'd meant what she'd said
to Logan.  When this whole thing blew over, she was going to pull out
the stops and heal her relationship with her sister.  The one good
thing to come out of this debacle with Mac Byrne was the realigning of
her priorities.

She thought about the popular idea that identical twins shared a sort
of telepathy, that they could sense what was happening to each other.
Fanciful nonsense, yet how she wished it were true at this moment.

She straightened the mattress, which had been stripped and yanked half
off 'he bed.  Unspeakably weary, she kicked off her shoes and plopped
on it, stretching full length.  Would she ever again know the luxury of
sheets?

Her sleepless night was catching up to her.  That and nerves.  She
stared at the old-fashioned light fixture glowing overhead, a milky
glass dish through which she counted seven fly corpses.  It wouldn't
hurt to rest awhile, she reasoned.  As soon as she had her second wind,
she'd call a taxi and return to her glamorous home away from home
before Logan even knew she'd stepped out.

HE INVADED HER DREAM, with his flagrant male hunger.  His carnal fury.
Whipping a tempest of raw, scorching need With no release.

And she wasn't afraid.  Not this time.

She fought the tug of wakefulness, wanting--needing--this dream.
Needing him any way she could have him.

Hands on her, urgent, possessive, stroking her through her clothes.

Open your eyes, Zara."

She did.

A scream barreled out of her throat, arrested by the big palm clamped
over her mouth.

"Easy."

The light had been turned off.  In the dark she could barely see him, a
shadow lOOming over her.  But it was his voice.  It was his long, silky
hair tickling her face.  His hand felt strange against her lips, the
skin tOO smooth.  He slowly removed it.

"Logan," she breathed.  "I..."  She almost said I was dreaming about
you.

No.  She couldn't tell him that.

"How--how did you know I was here?"

He nuzzled her throat, and she gasped.  "You can't hide from me, Zara.
That was careless, leaving a message on Emma's machine."

Belatedly she realized her sister must have given Logan the remote code
to retrieve her messages.  His hand swept over her body.  Instinct drew
her arms up, a flimsy barrier between them.  Last night he'd said this
wouldn't happen again.  Let's just keep our distance.

"Logan, don't--"

He silenced her with his mouth.  His hand found her breast and squeezed
it through her silk blouse.  He ignored her muffled protests, her
attempt to dislodge his grasping fingers.  The more she straggled, the
more aggressive he became, until she found herself pinned beneath him.
His mouth was voracious.  This wasn't the impassioned kiss of last
night--this was a taking, not a sharing.

Her anger surged, lending her strength.  She twisted beneath him,
bringing elbows and knees into play.  "I said stop!"

She cried out in pain as he seized her forearms roughly and slammed
them on the mattress near her ears.  His mouth ground against hers,
cruelly.

"Some part of her--some primal animal part--didn't recognize this man.
Her senses were in discord, sending conflicting messages to her brain.
Something was different.  The scent of him, the taste of him... Relying
on instinct, she bit his lip savagely, and he jerked back with a bellow
of outrage.  His hand arced up to strike her and she turned away,
taking the blow on the back of the head.

Pain lanced her skull, momentarily stunning her.

One of the good guys, she dully thought.  Logan was supposed to be one
of the good guys.

He rose off the bed, but somehow she knew he wasn't finished with her.
She heard him leave the room.  She sat up and swung her legs over the
side of the bed, fighting dizziness, forcing her mind into
problem-solving mode.

The scissors.  She'd dropped them on the night-stand.  She groped in
the dark and came up with nothing more lethal than a clock radio.

She squinted against the sudden glare of the overhead light.

"A precaution," he said, leaning against the door frame, swinging the
shears from one long finger.  Now she saw why his hand had felt
odd--latex gloves.  The kind surgeons wear.  The kind criminals wear
when they don't want' to leave fingerprints.  He flung the scissors
into a corner.

Her gut clenched.  She'd never seen that taunting smile before.
"Logan."  She gained her feet.  "Why are you doing this?"

"Wish we had more time."  He pushed off the door frame.  "I'd give you
one hell of a ride.  Take these."

Only then did she notice what else he was holding.  A paper bathroom
cup and a prescription vial.  He shook out the contents--six small
white pills.  "What is that?"  Her voice wobbled.  "Painkillers.
Heavy-duty stuff, too."  "Those are Emma's?"

"Yep."  Logan examined the prescription label.  "Couple of years old.
Probably had a tooth out or something.  Guess she didn't need them
all."  He tossed the vial.  "Take 'em."

"No."  Her knees were shaking.

Logan drew his gun from under his waistband.  That's when she realized
he'd changed clothes.  The teal raw silk shin and beige linen slacks
were a far cry from the weathered gray polo shin and jeans he'd worn
earlier.  The ponytail was gone, his long hair brushed back off his
face, revealing the edge of a scar at his hairline that she'd never
noticed before.

Those little changes made an amazing difference in his
aPpearance--though the biggest difference of all was his expression.
Glacial.  As if the two of them hadn't spent half the day sprawled on
the mattress in the warehouse, the Sunday Times spread out around them,
rolling in muffin crumbs and empty coffee cups, working the crossword
puzzle and reading the editorials to each other.  As if she hadn't
revealed more of herself to him than she had to anyone, ever.

"Logan," she breathed.  "You don't want to do this."  Whatever he had
in mind, she knew she didn't want him to do it.

He slowly approached her.  His implacable golden stare held her
immobile, bringing to mind once more that picture of a wolf in her
father's den.  Ruthless.  Single-minded.  The quintessential
predator.

Casually he touched the barrel of the gun to her chest.  "I prefer not
to shoot you.  But I will if I have to."

She felt the blood drain from her head as she accepted the cup of
water.  He dropped the pills into her hand.

"I wish I could're found more," he said.  "That would make it easier on
you.  Easier on both of us."

His words squeezed her stomach like a fist.  She wondered giddily if
she'd be able to get the pills down her tight throat--and keep them
down.

He watched as she placed them in her mouth and chased them with a
swallow of water.

He said, "Open up."

She endured the humiliating exercise of opening her mouth to prove she
wasn't hiding the pills.  Satisfied, he gestured with the gun.
"Strip."

The soft-spoken word paralyzed her.  This isn't happening she told
herself I Logan isn't doing this to me.  "Logan--"

Without warning, he tore open her blouse, sending buttons flying.
"Hurry up."  He stalked to the pile of clothes tossed from Emma's
dresser drawers and kicked aside sweaters, underwear and socks until he
found what he was looking forma swimsuit.  A plain black one-piece with
a demure neckline.  What Zara thought of as a "grandma suit."  '

He tossed it at her.  "Put it on."

She forced herself to undress as Logan stood watching.  "Emma isn't
really safe, is she?  You--you did something to her."

She couldn't sort it all out.  If Logan was working for Mac Byrne, if
he'd never intended to let her live, why had he tucked her away in a
warehouse off Tenth Avenue for two days?  Murderers didn't feed their
victims Sicilian heroes and mu shu pork and take them to the museum
when they whined about cabin fever.

He stared fixedly as she dropped her bIo use and stepped out of the
short leather skirt.  For the first time in her life, she wished she
wore sedate white cotton undies like Emma.

"You and your old lady," he said, with a little head shake.  ""You sure
know how to show off what you've got."

She presented her back and quickly divested herself of garter belt,
stockings and bra.  She whipped off' the panties and pulled on the
swimsuit in about three seconds.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"  he snickered.  She'd kill him, she
thought, turning around to face him.  If he gave her half a chance,
she'd wring the bastard's neck.  Tears scalded her eyes, less from
humiliation than from a profound sense of betrayal.

This man had made her feel something.  She'd exposed her bleeding soul
to him, her insecurities and yearnings, the hurts of her past and her
prayers for the future.  For his part, he'd shown an underlying
gentleness, a vulnerability she'd suspected the rest of the world never
got to see.  Either he was a consummate actor or she was a first-class
fool.

She'd even felt an exhilarating sexual longing for the first time since
well before her divorce: a stunning resurrection of that which her
ex-husband had methodically obliterated.

He'd made her feel that, damn him, this animal now pointing a gun at
her!

He gestured toward the doorway.  "How about a little nightcap?"

Chafing the gooseflesh on her arms, she preceded him into the living
room.  He righted a tattered easy chair and ordered her to sit. Already
she was feeling woozy.  The rump-sprung cushions were a welcome
support, saving her the bothersome chore of keeping her feet under her.
She wished she had more in her stomach to slow down the drug.  She'd
eaten a light dinner, knowing that if she kept letting Logan stuff her
with food, she'd soon need a larger wardrobe.

She watched, a little too placidly, she knew, as he entered the
kitchen.  She heard him crunching over the broken glass that littered
the tile floor, heard the refrigerator door open.  By the time her
muddled mind decided to make a run for it, he was back, a half-filled
bottle of white wine in hand.

"Thirsty?"  he cheerfully asked, holstering his gun.  "Does it matter?"
"I'm afraid not."  He pulled the cork and held the bottle out to her.
"Bottoms up."

"I don't drink Chablis."  Her tongue got in the way of the words.

"I'm a martini man myself.  Drink."  He wagged the bottle.

She stared languidly at the golden liquid sloshing in the bottle.
"Don't I get a glass?"

Logan sat on the arm of the chair, facing her.  He tilted her chin,
studied her eyes.  "Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached cruising
altitude."  He slipped a palm behind her head to hold her steady as he
tipped the bottle to her lips.

She resisted briefly, but too soon the woolly part of her mind, the
part that wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap, won out.
The cold wine went down like acid.  She coughed and sputtered and he
gave her a respite.

"Okay?"  he asked after a moment, and wiped her chin with his gloved
fingers.  His expression, his tone of voice, were solicitous.

She nodded.

He brought the bottle to her lips several more times, until it was
empty, until her eyes drooped and he had to prop her up with an arm
around her shoulders.

"Come on, Zara.  Time for a swim."  He pulled her up and she slumped
against him.

She giggled.  "I'm too drunk to go swimming."  "That's the point."

She staggered with him through the disheveled house toward the back
door.  A corner of her mind was aware that the next few moments would
be critical to her existence.  Her life hung in the balance, but she
couldn't rouse herself to do anything about it.

He said, "Life has become too much for you, Zara.  Your failed
marriage.  Your money problems.  Your strained relationship with your
sister.  She was always Daddy's favorite.  You never were able to
please him, were you?"

"You're a good listener," she mumbled, and tripped over the remains of
a potted spider plant.  He steadied her.

"These things have you very depressed," he said.  "You've decided the
pain isn't worth it.  You've given up."

"No I haven't," she said.

"Yes."  He opened the back door.  "You have."  She planted her feet and
they both skidded to a halt in the doorway.  The cool night breeze art
owed through the fuzz in her brain to impart one last moment of
lucidity.  "You're going to kill me, aren't you?  And make it look like
I killed myself."

He shrugged.  "Could be seen as an accidental drowning, too.  Too much
booze, too many pills.  Watch your step, now."  He guided her out the
door, over the cracked cement patio and the small patch of lawn.

"I thought you were one of the good guys.  I'm very disappointed in
you, Logan."

She felt the vibrations of his harsh chuckle in the arm supporting her.
"Imagine that," he mused.  "Logan Byrne disappointing someone."

Byrne?  Didn't he know his own name?

"Now, Logan's brother..."  He shook his head regretfully "Talk about a
disappointment.  Definitely not one of your good guys, Zara."  "You
don't have a brother."  "I'm working on it."

In the dark she could just make out a tall stockade fence running the
perimeter of the property, and-in the center, an aboveground pool
taking up most of the small yard.  It was oblong, about five feet deep
and eighteen feet long.

He stood still a moment, listening, alert for nosy neighbors, she
assumed, though the tall fence afforded privacy.  He looked down at
her.  "Not much farther.  How're you holding up?"

"Okay," she said on a yawn.

At the pool, he boosted her up the aluminum ladder and followed her.
She stood unsteadily on the metal deck perched over one end of the
pool.  The water looked inky, silver moonlight spilling over the
tranquil surface.

She had to lean against Logan for support, his warmth a shocking
contrast to the cool night air.  She shivered.

He whispered in her ear, "In you go."

Sweet unconsciousness beckoned.  She straggled to stay awake; to engage
her mind, to recall where this bizarre scenario was leading.

She said, "Nobody will believe I killed myself, Logan.  I'm h fighter,
I don't give up."

"You're a fighter?  Let's see you fight."

The icy water jolted her brain.  She hadn't felt him push her, and now
his strong hands held her under.  Her frenzied mind and starved lungs
screamed for air, but her body was sluggish, unresponsive.

The fight left her too soon.  The last thing she saw was Logan's face
through the veil of water, those pale, dispassionate eyes watching her
die.

Chapter Six

The lights were on.  Logan knew then that his hunch had paid off.  He'd
suspected as much, after her shrill insistence on talking to Emma.

He pulled into the driveway and hopped out of the BMW.  His first order
of business would be relieving her of the key to the warehouse.  He
smiled grimly, recalling his earlier words.  Never trust anyone and you
won't be disappointed.  How he wished he'd heeded his own advice.

He pounded on the door.  "Zara!  Open up!"

He didn't wait but immediately tried the door.  Unlocked.  Figures.

Did the woman have no inkling of the danger she was in?  Hadn't he made
it clear enough?

A cold ball of anxiety settled in his stomach.

No, he had to admit.  He hadn't made it as clear as he could have. He'd
chosen to keep her in the dark about certain details; hell, about
almost everything.  He had his reasons, but right now, as he
contemplated the peril Zara had placed herself in, those reasons didn't
seem quite so compelling.

He let himself into Emma's house and again surveyed the damage Mac had
done days ago, searching for Candy's ray gun.  "Zara!"  Nothing.

"Don't hide from me.  I'm going to find you."  And when I do, you'll
wish I hadn't.

Swiftly he searched the small house.  Could she have stepped out."?
There were no stores within walking distance.  He noticed the empty
bottle of Chablis on the floor of the 'living room.  The fact that it
was standing upright told him it had been set there after Mac ransacked
the house.

"Have yourself a little party for one, Zara?"  he murmured, though he
couldn't picture her sitting here getting quietly sozzled.  She had
other things on her mind--namely, her sister's safety.  He knew she
must have been frantic at finding Emma's home in this condition.

He could have told Zara exactly Where Emma was, but that would have
complicated matters, made her more difficult to handle.  If she spoke
to her sister, she'd find out about Logan's connection to Mac Byrne. He
recalled how suspicious she'd been of him in the beginning.  Once she
found out he Was the twin brother of the man who wanted her dead, he
wouldn't have a prayer of securing her cooperation.

At least that's what he'd told himself.  He hadn't counted on Zara
Sutcliffe--by all accounts shallow and self-absorbed caring enough
about her semi-estranged sister to defy him like this and put herself
at risk.  He'd underestimated her level of frustration, and her
devotion to Emma.

Where could she be?

One place remained to be checked.

He opened the back door.  "Zara!"

A sudden movement in the moot lit backyard drew his attention.  His
legs started moving before his rational mind assimilated what he'd
seen.

His own startled eyes staring back at him.

Mac turned and leapt over the pool railing onto the lawn like some
great lithe beast.

Logan had him!  After four long months of obsessive pursuit.  Four
months of waking each morning wondering if he was too late, if his
brother had already crossed the line beyond which there would be no
helping him.

The worst four months of Logan's life.  And here was Mac at last,
within his grasp!

As he rounded the pool he spotted him clambering up the fence.  Logan
actually grinned, anticipating the next few seconds: the short sprint
to the fence, the gut-deep satisfaction he was sure to feel as he
dragged his brother to the grass and subdued him.

Mac couldn't get away from him.  Not this time.  Something teased at
the edge of his vision as he swung around the pool.  Something pale on
the murky surface of the water.

His churning legs stopped, stumbled.  A sick wave of dread overwhelmed
him.  He knew before he looked.

Zara.

It wasn't too late to catch Mac.  But at what cost?  Seconds counted
for a drowning victim.  He had.  an impossible choice to make, but some
part of him, some fathomless, primordial part, took the decision out of
his hands.

He bounded up the pool ladder even as Mac hoisted himself over the
fence.  Zara was floating facedown, making barely a ripple on the
surface of the pool.  He knelt on the deck and leaned out over the
water, grasping her cool ankle.

He hauled her up onto the deck, where she lay limp and unresponsive. He
tilted her head back and put his ear close to her mouth, hoping for a
ripple of air, the rise and fall of her chest.

Nothing.

But she had a pulse.  Barely.  Placing his fingertips on her throat, he
detected the faint ticking of her carotid artery.

Not allowing another second to lapse, he pinched her nostrils and
sealed his mouth over hers, delivering four fast full breaths as a
start.

You're not going to die, he silently vowed.

He continued breathing for her every five seconds,

waiting, praying for her own lungs to take over.  Minutes passed.

"Breathe, damn you!"  he growled between puffs.  "I will not lose you,
Zara.  Breathe!"

She lay deathly still.  There was no way to tell how long Mac had held
her under.  Logan never considered stopping the resuscitation.  He'd
keep it up as long as it took.

Time seemed suspended.  It could have been ten minutes or an hour.  At
last a faint gurgle sounded from her throat.

"That's it, honey.  Come on."

He delivered another breath, and another.

A rattling cough shook her and he gently turned her on her side, facing
him.  Water poured from her lungs.  She groaned pitifully, her eyes
still closed.  He squeezed his own eyes shut for a moment against the
storm of unfamiliar emotions assailing him.

He kept talking, soothingly, as he gently lifted her and carried her
down the ladder.  "You're going to be all right, Zara.  It's over.
You're okay."

Her labored breathing sounded beautiful to his ears.  Shudders racked
her.  The first order of business was to get her warm and dry.

He carried her in his arms across the lawn.  "Come on, honey. Open/your
eyes for me."

She blinked, straining to focus on his face.  With recognition came
terror.  She cried out, flailing weakly against his hold.

He stopped in his tracks.  "Zara, it's me.  Logan."  Her struggles
increased.  She writhed and struck out at him, depleting her meager
strength.  He lowered her to the cool grass and held her, turning her
face to his.  "Look at me, Zara.  He's gone.  It's Logan."

Her panicked eyes raked his face; they took in his hair tied back in a
ponytail, his gray polo shirt.

"See?  It's me."  His fingers lightly stroked her cheek.  She shrank
from his touch.  She looked impossibly pale in the moonlight, her eyes
huge and dark and eloquent.  He read confusion, betrayal.

And then he knew.

He pretended to be me.  He let her think I was doing this to her.  In
that instant he was glad he hadn't caught Mac.  He'd have killed him on
the spot.

She pushed on his arms and he let her slide out of his embrace. Keeping
him in her sights, she scuttled back, then turned and crawled a few
shaky feet.  She stopped, doubled over, retching violently.  He was at
her side in an instant.

She whirled away from him.  "Don't touch me!"  He sat on his heels, his
heart breaking.  "Please.  Listen to me.  I didn't do this to you,
Zara.  I'll explain it all, but I have to get you inside first.  You're
in shock."

This time he didn't let her fend him off.  He seized' her quickly and
scooped her into his arms.  She collapsed, exhausted, the fight gone
out of her.  Her breathing was fast and shallow.  He held her close to
try to still her shivering, but it didn't help.  "You'll be warm soon,
I promise."

He let himself into the house and strode through the debris to the
bedroom.  Under the bright light her pallor was frightening, those lush
lips blue.  Her eyes were open, glazed.  He lowered her to the bare
mattress and swiftly pulled the sodden swimsuit off her.  Under any
other circumstances he'd have lingered to appreciate the view, but at
the moment voyeurism was the last thing on his mind.

He lifted a quilt from the floor and swaddled her in it, then quickly
grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed her scalp.  Her dark hair
stood out in spiky tufts, and he smoothed it down.

He rubbed her arms through the quilt.  "Zara."  His tone was gentle,
undemanding.  "Did he make you drink that wine?"

Her gaze homed in on his face.  He saw confusion, but her fear seemed
to have abated.  "Wine.  And... and pills."

His heart kicked.  "Pills?  What kind of pills?"

"White," she whispered, her eyes trying to drift shut.

He lifted her to a sitting position.  "How many?"  "Don't," she
whimpered.

"Zara."  He shook her slightly.  "How nany pills?"

"Six.

"Where's the bottle?"  He followed her dull gaze to the floor.  A quick
search of the rubble produced a small prescription vial.  "Is this it?
These painkillers?"

She nodded.

"Come on.  We're going to the hospital."

She groaned in protest as he scanned the floor for her clothes.  He
found the emerald silk blouse she'd worn earlier.  The buttons had been
torn off.

Time stopped.  He was aware only of the cold rage swelling his chest,
his throat, threatening to suffocate him.  He drew one shaky breath,
then another.  Needing to be calm.  For Zara.

He sat again and cupped her cheek.  "I need to know.  Did he rape
you?"

The flash of pain in her eyes sliced him like a knife.  "Answer me. 
Did he?"

"No," she whispered.

He hoped 'she was telling the truth.  He already knew his brother was
capable of anything.

"I was dreaming," she said thickly.  "I thought he was y--" She stopped
abruptly, searching his face.  "Who is he?"

"Mac Byrne," he said gently.  "My twin brother."

She stiffened, eyes wide with disbelief.  She shook her head..

"You know it's true," he said.  "You saw him.  I wish to God you hadn't
found out this way."  If he could go back in time, he'd do things
differently, be more candid with her from the start.

He wasn't accustomed to second-guessing his decisions.  He wasn't
accustomed to the surge of protectiveness this woman elicited from
him--from a place deep within that had lain dormant so long, he'd
thought that part of him was dead.

He didn't want to think about how close he'd' come to apprehending
Mac--his raison d'etre for the last four months.  He couldn't recall
the precise moment when he decided to let him go in the hopes of saving
Zara, but he had no doubt that given the same choice, he'd do it
again.

That was something else he didn't want to think about: the telling
shift in his priorities, what this woman had come to mean to him in one
short weekend.

He stood.  "Let's find you something to wear."  He spotted her sexy
little underthings on the floor.  And pictured some youngER doctor
plying his stethoscope over the sheer, forest green va, va-va-voom
brassiere.  Breathe deeply, now.

He turned to Emma's scattered Clothes and started sifting through them.
"Under the circumstances, I don't think your sister would mind sharing
her things.  Here we are."  He held up his find: white cotton bra.
Opaque.  Full coverage.  Ditto on the panties.  A prim pink cotton
blouse and khaki slacks completed the ensemble.  Plus white Keds to
replace Zara's high-heeled sling-backs.

She was still sitting, but appeared ready to topple.

He joined her on the bed and started to ease the quilt off her.

She drew away from him.  "I don't want to go to the hospital."

"This is nonnegotiable.  Your stomach pretty much emptied, it's true,
but don't forget you almost drowned.  You're going."

When he reached for the quilt again she clutched at it.  Pointed at the
door.

"Don't be silly, Zara.  Let me help you."  He didn't bother reminding
her it was a little late for modesty.  Her bleak expression' brought
him up short.  He imagined her ordeal at Mac's hands, his eyes drawn
again to the button less blouse.  He stroked her cheek and headed for
the door.  "I'll leave the door open a crack,

so I can hear you if you call for me, okay?"

She nodded, and he saw gratitude.

He paused in the doorway and looked at her.  This wasn't the Zara
Sutcliffe featured in People magazine and U.S. News.  This wasn't the
feisty, self-assured woman he'd come to know.  Not this fragile,
bedraggled waif with funky hair and mascara smudges under her bloodshot
eyes.

But to him, she'd lost none of her allure.  Each new thing he learned
about her added a layer of complexity, a fresh dimension to a woman
he'd considered a caricature only three days ago.

She intrigued him.

"I'll be right outside, Zara."  He waited near the door, listening to
the creak of the mattress and the rustle of clothing.  His knuckles
rapped the door.  "You okay?"

"Yeah!"  After a few minutes she said, "Come on in."

He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, exhausted by her
exertions.  He squatted in front of her to slip her feet into the
canvas sneakers and tie them.  He started to lift her and she said, "I
can walk."

He ignored her protests and carried her out to the car.  She sagged in
the seat next to him as 'he drove to the nearest hospital.

In the emergency room he handed over the prescription vial and
described Zara's near drowning, then was made to cool his heels in the
waiting room while a doctor checked her thoroughly.  When they finally
let him back to see her, she was asleep.  At least he thought she was.
As if she sensed his presence, her eyelids fluttered open and she
reached out for him.

His heart flipped over.  He squeezed her hand and brought it to his
lips without thinking.

The doctor was a middle-aged Africar-American woman.  Her name.  tag
read Gloria Prince, M.D. "I'd like to admit her for a day or two.  Just
as a precaution.  But she refuses."

Zara said, "I don't want to be here, Logan.  Take me home."

Home.

A squalid, roach-infested warehouse.

"Zara--" he began.

"Please."  She grasped his hand with both of hers, her dark eyes raised
imploringly.  "I hate hospitals.  I can't rest here.  Please, Logan."

He turned to the doctor.  "Will she be all right if she doesn't
stay?"

Dr.  Prince scowled.  "She seems to be out of danger, but it's routine
to hold a patient for observation in cases like this.  But I can't
force her.  Doesshe have someone to stay with her?"

"That'd be me," he said.  "Don't worry, I'll keep a close eye on
her."

Dr.  Prince sighed and addressed Zara.  "Don't exert yourself.  You've
got a good man here who's willing to wait on you.  You just sit back
and let him do that, you understand?"

Zara nodded obediently.

Chapter Seven

The ambrosial scent of clean sheets chased the lingering vestiges of
sleep.  Eyes closed, face snuggled in a pillow, "Zara inhaled the
mingled perfumes of Tide and Sta-Puf and knew it had all been some
horrible dream.  Mac Byrne.  The pills.  The pool.

She took a deep breath and stretched, a long, languid, feline arch.
Finally she allowed her eyes to creak open.

Late morning sunlight filtered through a gauzy ivory curtain swelling
with a gentle breeze.  She struggled to recall that window, those
curtains, this feminine bedroom.  She looked down at the pastel floral
sheets and matching comforter.  Nothing looked familiar.

"Good morning."  Logan's large form blocked the light and the breeze as
he squatted next to the narrow twin bed.  He touched her shoulder. "How
do you feel?"

She rubbed her face and croaked, "Peachy.  L'

"I made you some tea."  He nodded toward the night table, where steam
curled from an oversize stoneware mug.

"Tea?"  She grimaced.

"Tea's supposed to be good for you when you're under the weather."

"I'll pass."  She struggled to sit up, only then noticing that she
still wore Emma's pink cotton blouse and khaki pants.  "I was hoping it
had all been a nightmare.  Where are we?"

"Lou's house in Amityville."

"Amityville?"

"South shore of Long Island.  Just over the border into Suffolk
County."

He strOked her hair off her forehead, threading his fingers through the
strands and over her scalp.  Her eyes drifted shut.  It felt like
heaven.

He said, "I didn't have the heart to take you back to the warehouse.
Not in the shape you were in."  She looked up at him.  "Is this place
safe?"  "Safe enough for the moment.  Don't worry."  He stood up.  "You
were pretty out of it when we got here last night--this morning really,
about 2:00 a.m. Slept all the way from the hospital.  You just kind of
fell into bed as you were."

She plucked her wrinkled shirt.  "Trust "Emma to own clothes you can
sleep in."

"Lou offered to undress you, but I Said--"

"Lou offered?  Well, wasn't that generous of him!"  How many men were
going to see her naked before she got her life back!

A female voice from the doorway said, "Logan, you jerk."

Zara turned to see an attractive woman, mid-thirties.  Long, kinky
blond hair like a cloud, pulled up at the sides and secured with a
barrette.

"What?"  he said defensively.

""Lou wanted to undress you,"" the blonde mimicked.  "You ever bother
to tell her Lou's short for Louise?"

Logan had that put-upon male look that said, Outnumbered.t

She strolled into the room and held out her hand.  "Louise Noonan.  I
know who you are.  And yes, you can call me Lou."

Lou had a solid handshake.  She subscribed to the Emma Sutcliffe School
of Fashion, with her washable navy pantsuit and sensible shoes.

Zara said, "Thanks for sharing your home."

"No problem.  Logan knows I can never say no to him."

Zara watched the two of them exchange a teasing grin, steeped in shared
history.  Was Lou the lucky Ms.  Ribbed for Her Pleasure?

She recalled the dream she'd had at Emma's, before Mac Byrne had
awakened her.  Logan touching her, wanting her, leaving her on the
searing brink of fulfillment.  She felt like a fool.

He turned to Lou.  "You going?"

She nodded and laid her hand on his shoulder.  "Watch your back.  Don't
forget.  He knows you better than you know him."

He tugged a billowing strand of blond hair, an intimate gesture of long
standing, Zara suspected.  "Don't worry about me.  Watch your own damn
back."

Zara looked away, feeling like an interloper.  She heard the sound of a
quick kiss and didn't know whether it was on the lips or cheek.  She
hated herself for wondering.

Lou said, "Get some breakfast into her, Logan."  She paused on her way
out the door to wag a finger at Zara.  "Make him cook for you.  He
knows his way around my kitchen."

Zara nodded and tried to smile.

When they were alone he said, "Hungry?"  -"Starved."

"It's no wonder, considering you, uh..."

"You can say it."  Lost my 'supper?  Tossed my cookies ?

"Barfed your guts up."  He helped her to stand.

She swayed a bit, and he steadied her.  "Easy now."  "Just point me
toward the bathroom."

He did more than that, he located a new toothbrush, earning her undying
gratitude.  She emerged a few minutes later, with her hair damp-combed
and her face scrubbed free of her smeared makeup.

"My God," he said, "you look so much like Emma."

"Right down to the fetching ensemble."  "What have you got against
practical clothes?"

"Life's too short for practicality.  I smell coffee."  She followed him
to the kitchen.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to the vinyl-cushioned dinette booth.

"Are you autocratic about everything?  Even breakfast?"  She sat, too
drained to even consider defying him.

"Especially breakfast.  Most important meal of the day and all that."
He unerringly located an electric waffle iron in the cabinet under the
microwave.

"Lou Was right," she said coolly.  "You certainly do know your way
around her kitchen."

He opened the fridge.  "Bacon?  Sausage?"

"I don't know if I can stomach that much grease right now.  Give me
some coffee or I'll hurt you."  He grinned.  "Black, right?"

"Right."  He was wearing a white polo shirt.  Not the gray one he had
on yesterday.  Which meant he probably kept clothes here.

Where had he slept last night?  Not in that dinky little guest bed with
her, she knew.

Stop it!  she commanded herself.

He set the coffee in front of her and pulled a mixing bowl out of a
cabinet.  He moved to the work island where he could face her while he
made the waffles.  She said, "Is my sister all right?"

She saw chagrin as he looked up from his work.

"That was a mistake.  Not telling you earlier."

Oh, God.  "Is she ?"

"Yes.  She's fine.  Safe.  I told you she hooked up with Gage Foster.
He took Emma home with him to Arkansas.  She's safely tucked away with
him somewhere in the Ozarks, waiting for me to call with word about
your mother."  As he talked he collected utensils and ingredients.
"Which I haven't done yet.  What would be the point?  I don't have
anything concrete to tell her."

She closed her eyes on a sigh of relief.  "You have their phone number,
then?"

He nodded.  "We'll call after breakfast."

"What did you hope to accomplish by keeping me in the dark, Logan?  By
keeping me from talking to her?"  She raised her palm.  "And don't tell
me it was for my protection.  TM

"It served my purpose."

"Which was to keep me docile, manageable."

"Yes."  He broke eggs into a bowl.  "If I'd thought you were going to
bolt like that..."

"Can you blame me?  What would you have done?"

He measured and mixed in silence.  "You know what they say about
hindsight."

Were her ears deceiving her?  "Are you saying you made a mistake?"

He kept his eyes on the batter he was thrashing.  "I'm saying maybe I
could've been more up-front, okay?  Maybe if I had, it would've kept
you from pulling an asinine stunt like running off to your sister
without even considering that the man who wants you dead might be
watching the place."  He glared at her.

As apologies went, it was less than impressive--yet at the same time,
more than she'd hoped for.  Too, she couldn't deny her foolhardiness.
They were both to blame for what happened.

"You saved my life," she said quietly.  "Thank you."

Something flitted over his features for a split second before he
directed his gaze to the bowl.  Something that told her he was more
affected by her near demise than he wanted to let on.

She said, "How did you know I'd gone to Emma's?"

"That was a no-brainer.  You were determined to talk to her."  He
flipped open the waffle iron and poured a sizzling cup of batter in
it.

"Was Mac still there when you arrived?"  His face hardened.  "Yeah.  He
was there."  "And he got away...?"  "I had no choice, Zara."

And then she understood.  He'd let him go so he could save her.  The
object of his single-minded pursuit had been right there, within reach,
and he'd let him get away.

For her:

She opened her mouth, and closed it.  She didn't know what to say.

He offered, "He'll slip up.  And when he does, I'll be there."

"What did Lou mean?  When she said he knows you better than you know
him?"

His jaw worked.  "I must be pretty predictable, as far as my brother is
concerned.  Whereas Mac, well, he's more of a wild card.  Let me put it
that way."

"Wild card?  I already figured out he's nothing like you."  And she
thought she and her twin were different!

"He's brain damaged, Zara.  It happened when he was eighteen."

She was stunned, until she remembered the scar under Mac's hairline.
"What happened?"

He eased up the top of the steaming waffle iron to take a peek.  It was
still sticking.  "Mac and I ... we weren't exactly the Hardy Boys
growing up.  We got in our share of trouble."

"You ?  What kind of trouble?"

He shrugged.  "Some vandalism: Petty theft.  Boosted a few cars."

"You stole cars?"

"Just for joyriding.  Not to sell."

"Oh," she said dryly.  "That's okay, then."  "There was nothing okay
about it.  I'm not making excuses, Zara.  I did some things and took my
licks.

And I straightened myself out."

"And Mac?"

"There wasn't much of a gang life in Smithville, our small town, but
what there was, he found.  I knew those guys were bad news, and I gave
them a wide' berth myself.  But Mac ... he was into it, the whole
tough-guy mystique.  He wanted to be baaad."

He got his wish, she thought.

He continued, "Only, in his zeal he made what one might call a tactical
error."

"Which was... ?"

"Seduced the gang leader's girlfriend."  He lifted the crisp brown
waffle out of the iron and deposited it on a plate.  He circled the
work island and placed it in front of her.  "Syrup or powdered sugar?"
"So what happened?"

"Mac's new pals jumped him in a parking lot.  Beat him to within an
inch of his life, put him in a coma.  He spent weeks in the hospital.
Was never the same after."

His pain was still close to the surface.  She could se it, in the flat
expression, the too composed features.

She said, "Your parents must've been devastated."  He fetched the syrup
and poured a second waffle.

"They've never gotten over it.  They're very... protective of him."

"Even now?  I don't understand."

"I think they're in touch with Mac.  I think they could lead me to him,
if they wanted to.  In fact, I'm sure of it."  He gazed out the window.
"They despise me for what I'm doing."

She saw it then.  Logan had been forced to make choices no one should
have to--no brother, no son.  He'd been placed in an impossible
position, having to align himself against not only his malevolent
brother but his parents, as well.  She was deeply moved by his
willingness to share this part of himself with her.  She began to
comprehend his aloofness, his all-consuming dedication to this
mission.

She said, "What will 'you do when you catch up with him?"

"Have him committed.  He belongs in a mental facility."

"You still love him, don't you?  After everything."  He braced his arms
on the countertop.  "He's my brother, Zara.  I should have done more. I
should have kept him out of that gang."

"Sounds like Mac had a mind of his own."

"He did, and back then I told myself it was none of my business what
kind of mess he got himself into.  But if I'd stuck closer by him, that
beating never would've happened.  He'd be ... he'd be normal today."

"You can't blame yourself."  He made his own choices."  And here was
Logan, the good brother, picking up the pieces.

He didn't respond to that, just nodded at her plate and said, "Don't
let it get cold."

"I'll wait for you."  Her hunger had suddenly abated.  "When you said
you didn't think Mac would want to hurt my mother, what did you
mean?"

He removed his waffle from the iron and carded his plate to the table.
At last, something resembling a smile.  "You've seen Candy's old
movies.  The skimpy outfits.  The suggestive dialogue.  The whole
vampy, campy scream-queen thing.  Eat."  He dug in to his own meal.

"What do those old 'films have to do with this?"  "He was smitten.
Well, me, too, when I was twelve and we'd watch those cheap horror
flicks on TV.  She sure was something."

Zara smirked.  "Hey, that's my mother you're talking about!"  She
poured syrup on the waffle and tried a bite.  It was delicious.

He said, "I think you're on the mend."  She looked at him quizzically,
mouth full.  "You're doing that thing with your shoulders."  He smiled
at her look of chagrin.  "Don't be embarrassed.  I like it.  It's
sexy."  .

Averting her eyes, she squeaked the waffle down her gullet and chased
it with a gulp of coffee.

"Anyway," he continued, "I got over my adolescent crush on Candy
Carmelle about the time I discovered real girls.  My brother, though...
he was never a hundred percent grounded in reality.  I think watching
those movies, over and over, influenced his concept of female
perfection."

"Good God."

"No matter what he may threaten, I don't think he could bring himself
to do in the object of his adoration.  I've seen some recent photos of
Candy.  Far as I can judge, she doesn't look much different from when
she shrieked her way through those Atomic Bride pictures."

"Good genes and a better plastic surgeon," she said.  "I hope you're
right."

"Mac's weirdness escalated after the beating--what my folks so benignly
refer to as his' accident He became firmly entrenched in a fantasy
world--movies, role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons, and later,
computer games."

"And your parents didn't discourage it?"

"They indulged him.  A function of their own guilty consciences, no
doubt.  His behavior became more bizarre, more violent.  At the same
time he saw me working hard to turn my life around.  I got in with a
better crowd, improved my grades, went to college.

Eventually I joined the Bureau."

"What was Mac's reaction?"

"I think he was jealous.  And that resentment helped set him on the
opposite path.  He started out as a legitimate art dealer.  Educated
himself, slimed his way into the right circles.  Brain damaged or not,
he was always smart, resourceful.  I actually held out hope he was a
legitimate businessman, that he'd left the rough stuff behind."

"When did you realize he hadn't?"

Logan pushed away his empty plate.  "I suspected for some time.  It
just didn't scan--that he could support his lavish life-style on the
amount of business he was doing out of that little office of his.  He
was pretty good at covering his tracks, but at the Bureau I had access
to state-of-the-art surveillance and information-gathering techniques.
When I realized he'd diversified into stolen art and collectibles, I
tried to intercede, get him to straighten out.  I was determined not to
make the same mistake twice.  Waiting and watching until it was too
late."

"I take it he was unreceptive to your brotherly concern"

"Understatement of the year.  So I backed off.  Figured, let him dig
his own grave.  It was only a matter of time before one of his scams
would backfire and he'd be put away for a while.  But as I kept tabs on
him, I realized the stakes were getting higher.  He'd gotten hooked up
with some real nasty characters, the kind who'd think nothing of
killing you if they thought you were trying to put something over on
them."

"And let me guess.  Mac tries to put something over on everyone."

"You got that fight.  As far as I could see, he'd pulled out all the
stops.  Extortion, assault, you name it.  I knew then that he had to be
stopped, before he did the unthinkable."

The unthinkable.  "Tell me what he did to Emma" "He pushed her in front
of a subway train."

Zara's hand went to her mouth, as if to contain her anguished cry.

He said, "It happened when she was on her way to meet him.  He followed
her onto the subway platform, snatched her bag--obviously thinking it
contained the ray gun--and pushed her."

"And--and Gage saved her, you said?"

"He'd followed her, too, thinking she was you, infuriated because you'd
stood him up for your meeting.  Turned out she was hiding the gun
inside her raincoat."

"But Mac got it eventually.  By kidnapping Candy and holding her for
ransom."

Logan slid onto a corner of the dinette bench, draping one long arm
over the back.  "That was the deal, Candy in exchange for the ray gun.
When Gage went to meet with him, Mac got the gun."

"But didn't release Mom," she surmised.  "Right."

"Because she can identify him.  But I can identify him, too, and that's
why he's trying to kill me.  How can you be go sure his adolescent
crush on my mother will keep him from... from hurting her?"

He laid his hand on her arm.  "I can't be sure, Zara.  When you're
dealing with someone like Mac, there are no guarantees.  I'm going by
my gut here--and something Mac said to Emma.  He hinted that he had
plans for Candy that would put her on easy street.  Don't ask me what
that's about."

"I'm surprised the FBI is letting you work on this case.  I'd think
they'd be concerned about your connection to Mac, a conflict of
interest."

"I'm not with the Bureau anymore."

"What!"

"I quit a couple of years ago."

She sat straight, panic surging anew.  He dropped his hand.  "Are you
telling me this is a one-man operation?  That you don't have the FBI
behind you?"

"I have contacts in all the agencies, resources to draw on.  It's what
I do."

"What does that mean, it's what you do?"

"I solve problems, Zara.  For individuals.  For companies."

She shook her head, uncomprehending.  "Corporate espionage.  Celebrity
stalkers.  Kidnappings.  Blackmail."  He spread his hands.  "Problems.
Some things can be handled more efficiently by circumventing the
official channels.  There are times when the police and the D.A."s
office, even the Bureau, can compromise a delicate situation.  A case
of too many cooks.  None of whom care enough to see the thing done
right."  .  ,

"What are you saying?  That you work outside the law?  That you're some
kind of---of hired gun?"

"Not outside the law ... on the fringes maybe.  I have my own code of
ethics and I'm comfortable with it."

"Would the authorities be comfortable if they knew what you do?"

He shrugged.  "I'm careful.  And discreet.  It's been my bread and
butter for the past twenty-two months,

since I cut myself loose from the Bureau."

"What made you quit?"

He sighed.  "That's a long story."

She put down her fork, leaving half her waffle.  "I have all day."

"You read the papers.  You know some of it already."

"What, like what happened at Waco?"

"Waco, Ruby Ridge.  As tragic as incidents like that are, the real
tragedy is that they're avoidable.  A matter of too much stiff-necked
policy-making and too little plain old horse sense.  The Bureau's
dragged down by this swollen, inflexible bureaucracy.  The average
agent in the field is swamped by paperwork and dead-end cases."

"So you decided to quit."

He stood abruptly and started clearing their dishes.  "I figured I
could do more good on my own.  No partners dropping the ball.  No
double-crossing supervisors.  Just me."

He had his back to her as he loaded the dishwasher.  She wondered what
he wasn't telling her..  The first time she'd looked, into his eyes,
days ago, she'd known he was a man with a wealth of stories.

Trust no one, he'd said.  She was beginning to piece it all together.

"But it isn't just you, is it?"  she asked his back as he wiped out the
waffle iron.  "You're working with Lou.  Tell me she isn't on her way
to my office right now, or my apartment, or somewhere else Mac might
make an appearance."

"Lou's different.  I'd trust her with my life.  I have trusted her with
my life, on more than one occasion."

Don't do it.  "How long have you two been... involved?"

"Two years."

She was glad he couldn't see her face.

Abruptly he went still.  He looked over his shoulder.

"Do you mean involved involved?"

She could only nod.

And fight the urge to slap that smug grin off his face.

"Does that bother you?"  he asked.

"Of course not."  Her voice had risen an octave or two.

He turned around and leaned back against the counter, fingers curled
over the edge.  His smile softened and she felt like sliding under the
table, ashamed.

of the discomfort she was helpless to conceal.  "Lou and I go back a
long way," he said.  "You don't have to explain anything to me." 
"She's from my old hometown--one of that 'better crowd' I told you
about?  Lou believed in me.  She helped me see that my talents didn't
stop at hot-wiring cars."

Zara didn't want to think what talents Lou had helped him hone.  "Why
are you telling me this?"

"I told you damn near everything else.  Why not this?"

She had no answer.

He said, "Lou and I became lovers our sophomore year at Brockport."

You asked for it, she chided herself I Then... "Wait a minute.  I
thought you said you've only been together two years."  "We've been
working together two years, since I set up shop.  That fling in college
lasted five hellish weeks.  We couldn't get along--I think it's because
we're so much alike.  We nearly killed each other until we called it
quits and agreed to be friends again."  "Was Lou with the FBI, too?"
"No.  She was a detective with the NYPD, married to another cop, Adam
Noonan.  Good man.  Adam got killed during a drug shoot-out seven years
ago, and that's when Lou quit the force to become a PI.  She wanted to
spend more time with her daughter."  "Lou has a daughter?"

"Holly.  Eleven years old.  She left for school before you woke up."

He pushed off the counter and came toward her, a gentle smile in place.
"What made you think Lou and I were an item?"

"Well... I noticed you're wearing a fresh change of clothes .... "

"I keep extra stuff in the trunk of my car."

"And, um, I guess I wondered where you slept last night."

"On the sofa in the living room."

"I'm making an ass of myself, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but don't stop on my account."  He placed his palms on the table
and leaned on it, smiling down at her.  "It's quite a novelty, watching
polished, poised Zara' Sutcliffe make an ass of herself.  And, I

might add, flattering as hell being the cause of it."  "Why, you
arrogant fool!"

He laughed then, a joyful, spontaneous laugh that lit his golden eyes
and suffused his face with color, swelling a vein on his smooth
forehead.  Had she ever seen him laugh?

Not like this, she decided.  Not with this pure, unreserved delight. He
was beautiful to her then, in a starkly male way, and she couldn't take
her eyes off him.

He ended on a rumbling chuckle, grinning at her sheepishly from beneath
thick black eyebrows.

"You're really vile," she said, ignoring the renewed bout of mirth her
words triggered.  "You know everything about me and I know practically
nothing about you."

"I'd say you've gotten pretty well caught up."  He sobered.  "I don't
think I've ever told anyone so much about myself."

She detected a hint of regret.  Regret that he'd spent so much of his
life emotionally isolated from others, or that she'd managed to wheedle
information he'd just as soon keep private?  Perhaps she was better off
not knowing.

She said, "Let's' call Emma."

He retrieved Gage's phone number and called from the kitchen wall
phone.  "Gage.  Logan Byrne.  I have--"

Zara watched his face tighten and felt her gut respond.  He glanced at
her for the briefest moment.

"When?"  he asked.  "Did you check the airlines?"  After a moment, he
said, "No.  You stay there.  She might call."  He gave Gage the phone
number at Lou's and his cell phone number and hung up.

Zara found herself on her feet.  "Don't sugarcoat it, Logan."

"She's gone."  "Gone ?"

"Emma's worded about your mother--and you.  She slipped away from Gage
and took off for New York.  What is it with you women?"  he barked.
"Why can't you just stay put?"

And trust the men in our lives to take care of us?  TruSt.  didn't come
easily.  The men in their lives had a less-than-sterling track
record--starting With John Sutcliffe.  "Did her plane get in yet?"

He nodded grimly.  "Too late to intercept her at the airport."

"Your specialty."  She tried to anticipate Emma's moves.  "She doesn't
know where you've been keeping me.  She's going to' check out my
apartment, my office..."

He was already dialing the phone.  "Mac's out there, just itching to
finish what he started."

She slumped onto the bench and dropped her face into her hands,
listening to him alert Lou.  That's when she realized his associate had
associates herself, surveilling various locations.

She felt Logan's hand on her shoulder.  "I'll find her, Zara."

He didn't need to add, Unless it's already too late.

Chapter Eight

"Ronald."  Emma yanked off the floppy green-and-yellow sun hat and the
dark glasses.  "Am I glad to see you."

"You!"

"Now, hold on--"

"I'm not talking to you!"

Indignation colored Ronald Harrington's pale face and throat and
heightened his Boston accent.  He stood in his apartment doorway in gym
shorts and a wide leather weight lifter's belt: His bald cranium
glistened, as did the tawny fur on his muscular chest and back.
Apparently that which failed to take root on his head sprouted with
vigorous abandon elsewhere.  The designer tortoiseshell eyeglasses slid
down his nose and he pushed them back up.  To Emma he looked like a
woolly, bespectacled Mr.  Clean.

She glanced down the hallway.  "Can I come in?"  His mouth dropped
open.  "Not likely!  After that stunt with my Porsche?  It needed
thirty-four hundred dollars in repairs after your little jaunt.  It's
still in the shop.  I'm very angry with you, Zara."

Down the hall the elevator doors started to open.

Emma bullied past Ronald and slammed the door shut.  His apartment was
identical in layout to Zara's next door, but there the similarity
ended.  His entire living room was filled with Nautilus machines and
free weights.  The wails were floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Ronald Harrington was a partner in a prestigious Wall Street investment
firm and looked the part--above the tree-stump neck.  From the chin
down, he was solid, pumped-up muscle, which strained the seams of his
usual designer suits.

"Listen, I'm sorry about your car."  Pretending to be Zara, she'd
sweet-talked the keys from him to follow Gage when he went to ransom
her mother.

"As well you should be.  I make an effort to be neighborly and look how
I'm rewarded."

She was well aware what reward he'd anticipated for his
"neighborliness" but was too much of a lady to bring it up.  "I need to
tell you something," she said.  "I'm not Zara.  I'm Zara's twin sister,
Emma."

He stared at her, expressionless.  "Get.  Out."  He reached for the
doorknob, and she grabbed his thick wrist.

"No!  Please, Ronald.  I'm being followed."  She hoped it was a lie.

"I'm no longer amused, Zara.  My amusement ended thirty-four hundred
dollars ago."

"Oh, stop with the thirty-four hundred!  You're insured."

"That's not the point."

"Ronald.  Think about it.  If I were Zara, how could I manage to grow
my hair so quickly?"

"Wig."

She stalked up to him, tugging on her long hair, "Is this a wig?
Feel."

He rolled his eyes.  "Feel it!"

Tentatively he lifted a strand and rubbed it between his fingertips. He
pulled on it, gently at first, then not so gently.

"Owl See?"

He inspected her scalp with simian concentration.  "How did you do
that?"

"I'm not Zara!"  She jerked away from his probing fingers.  "Didn't she
ever mention a twin sister?"  "Never."

Emma wasn't surprised.  She didn't talk much about Zara, either.  She
and her sister had led separate lives so long, it was easy to forget
she'd been born a twin.  At least that was how it had seemed before
Zara asked her to impersonate her to keep the meeting with Mac Byrne.

If the last couple of weeks had taught Emma anything, it was the
importance of family.  She only had one sister, and she loved her, no
matter how much distance---emotional as well as geographical--they
might have put between themselves over the years.

Whose fault was it?  Their father's certainly, at least in part.  He'd
made no secret that Emma was his favorite.  She'd watched her sister
try so hard to please him, but Zara could never do enough.  His
attitude had crippled the girls' relationship and brought out a
rebellious streak in Zara.

Emma regretted letting her father's neuroses dictate her adult
relationship with her sister or lack of it.  It often took a crisis to
open one's eyes to what was important."  At this point she wanted
nothing more than to see her mother safely rescued... and to tell Zara
she loved her.

Ronald eyed her warily as he wiPed his face and dome with a towel. "You
really are Zara's twin sister, aren't you."

"I really am.  I need to know if you've seen her the last few days. Has
she been back to her apartment?"  "Not that I've noticed."

It was the answer she'd expected.  Logan had said he'd keep her
somewhere safe.  She wished Mac's taciturn brother had been a bit more
sPecific.

"I've been checking my answering machine from Arkansas," "Emma said,
more to herself than Ronald.  "From where?"

"Zara left a message--I don't know when.  Sounded rattled.  Said she
was coming over."

While she was supposed to be under Logan's protection, holed up in some
safe house!  Something had gone wrong.  Hearing that message had been
the final straw.  She'd sPent days anxiously awaiting word that her
mother had been rescued.  But Logan hadn't called, and she didn't know
where to reach him.

Emma's nerves had been stretched thin when she dialed her home phone
number in Queens last night and heard Zara's message.  She'd insisted
on flying to New York, but Gage had been adamant that she stay there in
Arkansas, where she was safe.  While God knew what was hapPening to her
mother and her sister.

She and Gage had argued.  Zara could take care of herself, he'd
insisted, but she knew he was talking about the Zara Sutcliffe profiled
on TV and in the news magazines.  He'd never met the woman who was
vying to be his agent.  He didn't know, as Emma did, that behind the
brash, self-confident exterior she was as insecure as Emma.  Perhaps
more so.

That morning, while Gage was out running a few errands, she'd taken off
for the airport and grabbed the first flight to New York.  Once in
Queens, she'd swung by her house and found it in the same ransacked
condition she'd left it--with the addition of a pile of Zara's clothes
in her bedroom, looking as if they'd been torn off her.

Knowing Mac could be anywhere, she'd grabbed the hat and sunglasses as
an impromptu disguise and taken a cab here to Zara's apartment building
on East Eighty-sixth.  Next step: her sister's office on Sixtieth and
Madison.  Not that she expected any sign of Zara there, either.  But
she had to do something.

She jammed the hat back on her head and slid the sunglasses on.  Ronald
said, "It's the hideous hat that convinced me you're not Zara.  She
wouldn't be caught dead in a monstrosity like that."

"Gee, thanks."  So much for her bold and daring departure from natural
straw.  She'd never be the fashion plate her sister was.  "Listen, if
you do run into her..."  No.  He had no way to get in touch with Emma.
She didn't even know where she'd be Staying.  "Forget it.  I'll call
you.  Tomorrow."

She eased open the door and checked the hall.  Clear.  She bid Mr.
Clean adieu, hurried down the hall and pushed the Down button.

Once out on the street, she headed toward the subway but wondered how'
much it would cost to take a taxi to Zara's office twenty-six blocks
south.  She struggled to summon her usual frugality, even as her mind
insisted on replaying the horrific result of her last foray into the
New York City subway system.  Mac Byrne, dressed as a vagrant, had
snatched her shoulder bag and shoved her off the platform into the path
of a train.  If Gage hadn't jumped onto the tracks to save her... A
block from Zara's building, her steps slowed: No, dammit.  She couldn't
go back into a subway tunnel.  Raising her hand to hail a taxi, she
stepped off the curb and scanned the oncoming traffic.  A yellow cab
peeled away from the phalanx of vehicles and cut across a lane.  She
dashed toward it, opened the back door and slid inside.

Mac Byrne scooted in right behind her and pulled the door closed.  Her
mouth locked open on what would have been a scream if the tip of a gun
barrel hadn't been poking her ribs through the pocket of his cream
linen sport jacket.

"That's what I like about you, Emma.  You're the sensible one."  He
flipped the hat off her, onto the floor of the Cab.  "Except for this
silly thing.  It looks better in your hall closet."

Which had to be where he'd seen it last, and why he'd recognized her.

He removed her plain, dark sunglasses and perched them on his own face.
One long arm snaked around her shoulders in a lover like embrace as the
gun gouged deeper.  "Eightieth and Lex, driver."  He peered over the
top of the shades and winked broadly.  "And keep your eyes on the
road!"

"SHE NEEDS MORE TIME to rest, Logan.  Can't you see how pale she still
is?"  Lou's voice was an urgent whisper.

Logan stood huddled with her in the kitchen, their voices muffled by
the noise of the dishwasher.  Beyond the archway into the dining room
they could hear eleven-year-old Holly, a budding novelist, pumping Zara
for information about the glamorous world of publishing.  They'd just
polished off a meal of spaghetti and meatballs.

"Do you think I want this?"  he said.  "I know she's in no shape to go
back to that..."  He scrubbed a hand over his face, weary and wishing
for the miracle of a few more options.  Hotels weren't safe.  And
they'd been at Lou's too long as it was.  "The longer we're here, the
more danger you're in.  Mac knows I've stayed in touch with you.  Who's
to say he hasn't already tracked us down here?"

"Let me worry about that.  I'm telling you to stay."  "Think about
Holly."

Lou held his gaze a long moment before looking away, toward the archway
and her daughter's excited chatter.

"You know I'm right," he said gently, and patted her arm.  "Don't worry
about Zara.  I'll take care of her."

She gave him a lopsided smile.  "Logan Byrne playing nursemaid?"

"When I think about what almost happened... She wasn't breathing, Lou.
She was ... I thought she was gone.  Yeah, I'll play nursemaid.  NO
problem."

Her smile changed into one almost of wonderment, but when he said,
"What?"  she refused to elaborate.  When he thought about it, he was
glad she hadn't.

"Listen, uh, Lou ... I'd like to borrow a few things to, you know, fix
up the warehouse a little?"

He tried not to squirm under her impassive stare.  "This is gonna be
good," she finally said.  "Tell me.  What frivolous items has Zara done
without these past few days?  Toilet paper?  Running water?"  "Nothing
like that.  Man.  Sheets."

A long-suffering sigh.  "Pillows?"  she prompted.  "Oh.  Pillows, too.
Sheets and pillows."  "How're you fixed for towels?"  "Towels, we
have."  "Bug spray."

"Oh.  Yeah.  I guess we could use some of that."  Logan didn't need his
old friend's dark glower to feel as low as one of those doomed
cockroaches.  Zara's comfort hadn't been high on his list when he'd
selected the safe house.  If anything, the prospect of the spoiled Ms.
Sutcliffe toughing it out under such austere conditions had amused
him.

But now he could only wonder ... what on earth had he been thinking?

"IF YOU WANT TO CLOSE your eyes and take a nap..."

Logan suggested.  He put the BMW in gear and backed out of Lou's
garage.  It was close to ten, and fully dark.  He began negotiating the
suburban roads that would take him to the highway.

"Holly's a good kid."  Zara smiled.  "Reminds me of myself at that age.
So much ambition, so much heart."

"Did you always want to be involved in publishing?"

"I always wanted to be involved with books.  They were my escape when i
was a kid.  My safety valve I would just crawl between the pages of
some book about dinosaurs or a Judy Bolton mystery and let everything
else roll off my back."  She looked at him.  "What was your escape?"

"Who says I needed an escape?"

She just waited for the answer.  How had she come to know him so well
in just a few days?

"Coins," he said.  "I had a coin collection."; "Really?  I can't
picture it."  "Too nerdy?"

"No ... I guess it's the patience and attention to detail that don't
quite fit.  I see you more as a man of action."

"Believe me, given the right provOCation, I can be patient and
attentive to detail."  He slid a suggestive grin her way, and she
smirked.

She asked, "Do you still have your coins?"  "Mac stole them when I left
for college."

After a moment she said, "I should've guessed."

He drove in silence awhile.  They got onto the parkway and he picked up
speed.

Zara turned to him.  "When are you going to tell me what you need me
for?"

His pulse lurched.  "What are you talking about?"  "You didn't pick me
up at the airport for my safety, Logan.  At least that wasn't the only
reason.  You need me to do something."

He forced his hands to unclench on the steering wheel.  "Things have
changed.  It doesn't matter what I had in mind before."

"Why not?"

"BecaUse I'm no longer willing to put you at risk."  He kept his eyes
on the road.

After a few moments she said quietly, "I thought so.  I knew it had to
be something like that."

He took a deep breath.  "My idea was to use you to sort of... lure him
out of hiding."

"We tried that.  It didn't work."

"We tried it without you being physically present.  I was hoping he'd
fall for that, show up at the restaurant and wait for you."

"You underestimated him."

"It would seem I did."

"And when you had me call his machine the second time..."

"There's no point in hashing all this out, Zara.  I've changed my
mind."

She half turned toward him.  "And when you had me call him again," she
persisted, "it was to set up a face-to-face meeting.  You figured my
actual presence would do the trick."

He felt defeated.  "That was the plan."

She sat back again.  "Tn do it."

His gaze snapped to her profile.  She was staring straight ahead. "Like
hell."

"It's my decision, Logan.  My call."

"Forget it.  I told you, I've changed my mind.  I won't use you like
that."

"Don't worry about it," she said caustically.  "Being used is what I do
best.  Ask Tony."

He bristled at the comparison to her detestable ex-husband.  "This
isn't the same thing."

"You're right, it's not," she said, but the words were flat.  She
wouldn't look at him.  "Forget I said it, okay?  Your plan makes sense.
We don't seem to have too many other options."

"You already had your face-to-face with Mac.  And look how it almost
ended."

"That won't happen again.  You'll be there to back me up."

"Think about it, Zara.  After last night, what are the chances of Mac
walking into a trap?  He'd know I'm watching.  Maybe he wouldn't show.
Maybe he'd arrange some sort of ambush.  Anything's possible.  The
simple fact is, we no longer have the upper hand, if we ever did.  We
can no longer call the shots."

"Because I messed things up by going over to Emma's.  I jumped the
gun."

"You didn't know what I had planned.  If I'd been more up-front, maybe
it wouldn't have happened."

"We should be able to figure out a way to trip him up.  If he knows I'm
going to be at some particular location--"

"No.  That's final."

"Why?"

Because 1 nearly lost you once.  "Drop it, Zara."  She was silent, and
he shot her a leery glance.  "And don't get any ideas!  You nearly got
yourself killed.  Once is enough."

"You forget.  It's my mother he's holding.  God knows what he's done to
her.  I've gotten a taste of his violence firsthand.  I know what she's
up against.  And what about Emma?  You and Lou haven't been able to
track her down yet.  He might have gotten to her already."

That was Gage's fear; as well.  He'd been champing at the bit down in
Arkansas, calling every hour.

She said, "Logan, it's my fault More is going through this.  This whole
thing is my fault."  "That's bull and you know it."

"If I hadn't agreed to sell him the ray gun--" "He would've gone at it
from a different angle.  He wasn't about to walk away from it, Zara.
Not with two million bucks up for grabs."

"But if I hadn't jumped at the chance to bankroll an apartment for
Morn, if I hadn't asked Emma to impersonate me--:"'

"Dammit, this is not your fault!"

"That isn't What you said a couple of days ago."  "I said it was your
fault?"

"Not in so many words.  You implied it."

"Well, I'm un implying it.  The only one responsible for any of this is
my brother."

"It's true, what Dad always said about me.  And Tony.  In some ways I
guess they knew me better than I knew myself."

"What are you talking about?"

"All my life I've heard how self-centered I am.  That I lack character.
Moral fiber."

"This' from a couple of world-class jerks.  You said yourself your dad
was a control freak.  And Tony ... talk about self-centered.  Did it
ever occur to you these guys just didn't know what to do with an
independent woman?"

"What are you saying, that they felt threatened by me?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

He let that steep awhile.

"You're willing to risk your neck to help rescue your mother," he said,
"even though you're frightened, and with good reason.  You feel
accountable and you want to make it right.  That doesn't sound like
someone who's short on moral fiber."

She was quiet so long, he glanced over at her.  She was smiling.
"You're really sweet, you know that?"  she said.  "So ... adamant.
Defending my character."

Eyes on the traffic once more, he murmured, "There's nothing wrong with
your character, Zara."  He'd been so self-righteous a few days ago, so
smug in his assumptions about this woman he'd never even met.  You'd
think he'd have known better than to accept at face value the distorted
image of Zara Sutcliffe presented by the media.

He added, "But a word of warning.  Not only am I not threatened by
independent women, I'll chain this particular independent woman to the
goddamn radiator if she gets even the slightest urge to strike out on
her own.  Am I coming in loud and clear?  TM

Zara just laughed.

Chapter Nine

"How long does he usually stay away?"  Emma listened to the receding
sound of automobile tires on gravel.  She'd just spent her first night
in the basement prison with her mother.  Her relief at finding Candy
unharmed had quickly given way to despair at the unlikelihood of
rescue.

"Hours usually," Candy answered from the middle of the floor, where she
was doing stretching exercises.  "Sometimes nearly the whole day.  I
figure he goes into the city."

"A good long drive each way."  Emma couldn't be certain where this
house was.  She'd ridden nearly the entire distance in the trunk of
Mac's car--a singularly horrifying experience.  She suspected they were
in Rockland or Putnam County, north of the city.  "You sure he didn't
hurt you at all?"  She must have asked this question a dozen times
since being reunited with he mother.  She was well aware of Mac's
propensity for violence.

"Not a scratch."  Candy took a break and sat cross legged on the floor.
"I'm pretty sure he's a serious fan of mine.  Smitten even."

Emma's jaw dropped.  "Get out!"

"I recognize the signs.  I could be wrong, but my gut tells me I'm not.
And even if I am, it's in his interest to keep me in one piece.  Like I
told you, there's someone out there willing to pay eight million bucks
for a living, breathing Candy Carmelle."

Since Emma's arrival yesterday evening, she and Candy had shared what
information they had.  When Emma had told her about Gage, Candy had
expressed delight in finally learning the identity of Mac's "damn
cowboy."

"But what about me?:' Emma crossed to the ratty sofa and plopped down.
"Why am I even here?  I thought for sure Mac was going to kill me
yesterday.  He tried to once."

"Something must've happened."  Candy rose and joined.  her daughter on
the sofa.  "Something that makes you more valuable alive than dead.
Thank

God."  She squeezed Emma's hand, her eyes shiny.  "The mysterious
William perhaps?"

Her mother eased her hand away.  She averted her eyes, but not before
Emma detected conflicting impulses battling it out behind them.

"What?  Mom, what aren't you telling me?"  She touched Candy's arm.
"You know something about this William, don't you?"

"No.  Maybe.  It's just a ... crazy suspicion.  I must've been down
here too long."  She smiled weakly.  "It's affecting my mind."

Emma sat up and made her mother face her.  "I want all of it."

Candy took a deep breath.  "It's just that I knew a William.  Long ago.
Only he called himself Billy then.

Billy Shaike.  I overheard Mac say something to William about trying to
live up to his name..."

"Sharke."  It took a moment to click.  "Billy Sharke!  He was a
director.  The Slithering, right?"

"And a handful of other pictures, including Return of the Atomic
Bride."

"The movie that ray gun was used in."  "Right."

"So, what?  Were you and Billy close?  Did you two have a thing
going?"

Candy turned pink.  She was embarrassed!  Emma couldn't recall her
mother ever being embarrassed about anything, least of all anything
having to do with sex.

"Wow.  That must've been some affair," Emma said.  "So why do you think
it might be the same guy?  Is he loaded?"

"I don't know.  He could be, I suppose.  He sure wasn't then."

"You mean you haven't kept in touch over the years?"

Candy's bleak expression brought Emma up short.  "Morn?  What is it?"

"There are things I never told you.  About John."  "Dad?  What about
him?"

"Honey, he wasn't the man you thought he was.  You have no idea what he
was capable of."

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea.  You only knew him for a couple of
years, after all, Morn.  We were raised by him.  By the time he died I
hate to say this ... I don't think I loved him anymore.  It was that
bad."

"It was worse, only you never knew.  There were things that were kept
from you."

Emma was shocked by the depth of bitterness behind her mother's words.
"Like what?"

"John used his wealth and position in society--his power--to control
everything and everyone around him.  He had no scruples.  He was a ...
a megalomaniac."  '

Emma had never applied that particular term to her father, but she
couldn't deny the description fit.  "I know he cheated you out of
custody of me and Zara.  He kept you from even seeing us.  What else
did he do?"

"Seizing custody was child's play for him.  What didn't he do?  He
manipulated everyone, all his personal and business dealings.
Methodically bankrupted anyone who defied him, even people he'd known
all his life.  It was a power game.  for him.  If I'd only known before
I married him... He could be so charming when he wanted something.  And
thirty years ago, he wanted me."

"How does Billy Sharke fit into this?"

"John was fanatically jealous of Billy.  He thought I was still in love
with him."  Candy stared off toward the utility room as she spoke.

"Were you?"  Emma asked gently.

"Yes.  But I made my choice.  Billy was a director of grade B horror
flicks, straggling to pay his rent just like everyone else.  And there
was John Sutcliffe, with his mansion and money and everybody kowtowing
to him.  It was all I'd ever dreamed of since I was a little girl
living in a crowded fifth-floor walk-up in Little Italy.  Security.
Respectability.  I figured this was my one and only shot."

"And you took it.  Who could blame you?"

"I blamed myself after what he did to Billy."  Tears spilled down her
cheeks.  "John ruined him.  He--he had him blacklisted in Hollywood. 
He bought off producers, engineered vicious rumors about drug use and."
and other things too horrible to mention."  And he maimed him," she
whispered.

Emma swallowed hard, knowing she didn't want to hear any more, but
knowing her mother needed to' talk about this.

Candy dried her eyes and cleared her throat.  "John had some hired
thugs break Billy's legs.  They shattered them with baseball bats.  And
he made me watch."

"Oh, my God..."

"He said if either one of us ever tried to contact the other, he'd kill
us both, There was never a question he could and would do it.
Efficiently.  Anonymously."

Emma felt out of breath.  She realized she was squeezing Candy's hand
hard.  Her mother seemed not to notice.  She stared into space as if
transported to another place, another time.

"So I never tried to find him," she whispered.  "Even after the
divorce.  John never stopped watching me, keeping tabs on me.  I knew
if I looked for Billy, he'd find out and..."

"I can't--I can't believe Dad would do something like that," Emma said.
But it was a lie.  A part of her knew her father had indeed been
capable of such acts.

"I've thought about it, since John's death.  I've thought about looking
for Billy.  But what would I tell him?"  She broke down, sobbing into
her hands.  "What could I say that would make up for..."

Emma pulled her into her arms and held her tight.  Could this
mysterious William be Billy Sharke?  It seemed too bizarre to be true,
and yet she could say that about almost everything that had happened
the past couple of weeks.

Her mother struggled to compose herself.  She drew away and
straightened her back, and for the first time Emma saw all sixty-one
years in her tear-streaked face.

Candy looked directly into her daughter's eyes and said, "There's
more."

"You KNOW, YOU DON'T HAVE to do everything for me, Logan.  I feel
fine."

Zara sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, an incongruously plush
oasis set amid the squalid desert of the warehouse.  When they'd
arrived last night, Logan had double-bagged the nasty mattress with two
quilted covers, then made up the bed with Lou's delicate rose-patterned
sheets, her mother-in-law's handmade quilt and four fluffy pillows.

That was for Zara, of course.  He'd spent the night in his sleeping bag
on the floor.  It was after' ll:00 p.m."  and she'd just endured a
second day of ex-Special Agent Logan Byrne's militant brand of
pampering.  She hadn't been allowed to lift a finger.

He looked up from her luggage, where he was searching for her
nightclothes.  "Lou wouldn't let us leave till I promised to take good
care of you.  Don't want to get her mad at me.  You should're been in
bed an hour ago."

"But I'm not tired.  I haven't done anything today!"

The cell phone rang.

She said, "Let's hope that's Lou."  She didn't need to add, With news
about Emma.

He crossed to the desk and flipped open the phone.  "Yeah."

His entire body seemed to snap to attention.  Zara knew instantly it
wasn't Lou.

"Meet with me, Mac.  Just you and me.  You name the place.  The
time."

She found herself on her feet, heart punching her rib cage.

Phone clutched to his ear, Logan turned tight circles like a caged
lion, his face etched in frustration.  "Don't do this, man.  It's just
you and me.  That's all.  Name the time.  Name the place, Mac.  I'll be
there.  Unarmed.  I want to-- Dammitt" He slammed the phone on the desk
so hard, she was surprised it didn't shatter.

"What does he want?"  Her voice wobbled.

"He wants to rub my nose in it," he growled.  "He has Emma."

Her despairing wail echoed in the huge empty room

Logan started pacing: "He has my phone number.  How?"

"Who have you given it to?"

He stopped dead in his tracks..  "My parents."

"Then you were right.  They are in touch with Mac."

"I'm going there.  And this time they're gonna give me some answers!"
He shoved the phone into its leather case.

"Now?"  she said.  "You're going now?"

"I'll be back as soon as I can, Zara.  I have to--" "I'm going with
you."  "No.  Out of the question."

"Didn't you already try to get them to talk to you?  Maybe I can
help."

"You're going to stay here where you're safe."  "I'm just as safe with
you, Logan.  I'm coming with you.  I have to.  My mother... and now
Emma.  I can't just sit here waiting, wondering..."

She didn't realize she was shaking until he put his hands on her
shoulders.  He drew her against him, slowly, with infinite tenderness.
"Trust me, Zara.  I'll do everything in my power to end this, to see
your mother and your sister safe."

She'd spent a good part of the day thinking about what Logan had
revealed last night in the car.  He'd detained her in this warehouse
not for her protection, as he'd initially claimed, but for the express
purpose of using her as bait to draw his brother out of hiding.
Gullible as always, she'd bought his story about this being some sort
of safe house.  One would think she'd have learned long ago not to take
a man at his word.  There was always a self-serVing motive for
everything.

The irony was that four days ago she would have been paralyzed with
fear at the prospect of becoming actively involved in this dangerous
venture.  Now she found herself arguing with him, begging him to accept
her assistance.

It would seem her near demise at the hands of his brother had
reconfigured Logan's priorities.  Still, she couldn't ignore the
indignities to which he'd subjected her.  He'd hustled her from the
airport using falsified ID, withheld critical information and deceived
her at every turn.

Worst of all, he'd allowed her to think he cared about her, at least
about her personal safety, when all along he'd planned to use her in a
dangerous scheme to apprehend his brother.

The familiar feeling of being used made her stomach clench.  Even after
the harsh lessons of the last few years, she was as naive as some
starry-eyed schoolgirl.  Afoolish romantic corner of her soul still
wanted to believe that somewhere out there was a man who could be
trusted.  A man who would respect her and, in turn, be worthy of her
respect.

And God help her, at that moment, as she stood in the circle of
lamplight with Logan, cradled against his broad chest, enveloped in the
warm security of his arms, she believed him.  She trusted him.  Despite
everything.

She knew that if anyone could rescue her family, it was this man.

But she refused to sit idly by when her involvement could make a
difference.  "I can't stay here alone.  Please take me with you,
Logan."  She met his gaze, her own level and determined.  "I think I
can help.  Let me try at least."

He scowled, but she saw she was getting through to him.

"I won't be in any danger, anyway," she added.  "I'll be with you."

He smiled grimly.  "A genuine guarantee of safety."  He brushed her
hair off her face, cherishingly.  "I'm not going to talk you out of
this, am I."

She shook her head, and teased, "You could always do what you
threatened and chain me to the radiator."

"A tempting thought."  But he was grinning now.  He lowered his head
until his lips met hers.  It was a gossamer kiss, a mere whisper of
sensation that drizzled over her body like warm honey.

He remained motionless, his mouth barely touching hers', his very
stillness intensifying the satin texture of his lips, the tantalizing
taste she needed more of.

She couldn't remain still; she didn't have Logan's self, discipline.
Her mouth moved, lightly, experimentally.  His breath snagged and his
lips parted as if of their own volition.  Clearly he was fighting it,
this thing between them, and having no more success than she.

Zara needed this so much it frightened her.  Logan had become her rock,
her anchor; if she let go of him, she'd surely be swept away in the
tidal wave of insanity her world had become.

Unthinkingly she increased the pressure of her mouth, nibbled his lower
lip.  His long, strong.  fingers slid over her scalp to hold her to
him.  His palm on her back pressed harder as he wrested control of the
kiss from her, angling his head to take her mouth with pulse-pounding
thoroughness.

He dragged his hand down her spine and under her black silk tunic to
fondle her bottom through her white le His touch was intimate,
unrepentantly brazen.  She gasped into his mouth and arched against
him.

"What have you done to me?"  he groaned, tilting her head back to
nuzzle her throat.  She was breathless.  Raw heat pooled in her most
intimate places.  Her nipples peaked and pushed against the confines of
her bra.  She couldn't ignore the maddening tingle or the deep hum of
desire between her legs.  Her arms encircled his neck.

He pressed delicate, unhurried kisses to her eyes, her cheeks, the
corners of her mouth, as his hands slid up her sides under her loose
tunic.  When he met the obstacle of her bra, he deftly unclasped it.
His fingertips continued their journey, gliding up the outside edges of
her breasts, tracing the tender curve of ultra sensitive flesh there.

She stopped breathing.  She gripped his shoulders, half-afraid her legs
would give out.  He had magic hands, a conjurer's hands.  They moved on
to the gentle slopes of her breasts, still with the lightest of
touches, butterfly strokes.  Her pent-up breath escaped in a hoarse
plea.  "Logan!"

"You're sensitive," he murmured.  She concurred with a groan of raw
pleasure.  He caressed her but ignored the prickly tips of her breasts,
which rasped against the lace of her loosened bra as he lifted and
stroked her.

She gasped softly, momentarily startled by the warm trickle of moisture
that was her body's silent invitation, As if he knew, one large hand
skated down her back and over her bottom.  Those magic fingers slid
between her legs with just enough pressure to launch her sanity into
the stratosphere.  Her shuddering cry bounced off the bare walls and
resounded in the big room.

He captured her mouth in a lingering kiss as' his hands left her body.
She swayed toward him, dizzy with longing.  She knew what he saw when
he looked at her: a mirror image of his own sharp hunger.  The flared
nostrils.  The parted lips.  And his eyes, deceptively languorous, but
with an underlying potency that rocked her.

He fingered the neckline of her tunic.  "Take this off."  He stepped
back, into the shadows, leaving her standing alone in the ring of
lamplight.

Without hesitation she raised her fingers to the row of tiny
tortoiseshell buttons.  He watched intently as she eased each one
through its buttonhole.  Finally she let the silk slide off her
shoulders to puddle on the floor.  With a nod he told her to shed the
bra, and she did.

She stood there exposed to the waist,

by the floor lamp.  In all her nearly thirty years she'd never done
this, never bared herself and waited passively, submissively, while a
man simply looked her.  Sex with Tony had always been a straightforward
affair, the preliminaries bypassed or glossed over.

She couldn't see Logan clearly, but she felt gaze like a hot tongue.
Her breasts shuddered with each agitated breath, her nipples stiff and
tender.  Each second of charged silence magnified her arousal until she
thought she might explode in orgasm, without i him even touching her.

If there was anything more important than having this man inside her,
right now, she didn't know what it was.

"Come here."  His voice was thick.

She walked into the gloom, drawn by his golden eyes, which glowed like
live coals.  She stopped inches from him, her senses clamoring for his
touch, for the feel of him, the taste of him, the weight of him on her,
the unyielding pressure of him in her.

He touched the aching peak of her breast, shooting a spark from his
fingertip straight downward.  She couldn't keep quiet.  Or still.  He
cupped her in his palms and thumbed the tips, pinching them lightly.
She grasped his wrists.  It was too much.  Not enough.  She was
practically sobbing with need.

He brought her hand to her breast and brushed the palm across the sharp
tip.  "You are so beautiful," he whispered, his tone one of wonder.
"Perfect."

His other hand slid downward and settled between her legs.  When he
drew it away, one finger trailed upward, wringing a sharp gasp from
her.

He placed her hand on his erection, which strained the fabric of his
jeans.  He felt impossibly full and heavy and vital, his flesh leaping
against her fingers.  Holding her gaze, he slid her palm the length Of
his penis.  It was a primal gesture, a warning, alerting her to the
seriousness of his intent.

He cupped her face and kissed her.  "Do you have protection?"

Her mind struggled to assimilate the practical question.  The haze of
passion began to burn away like fog in bright sunlight.  "No."

He started steering her toward the bed.  "It's okay, I do."

"I know."  She winced, wishing she could retract the hasty words.

After a silent, heart-stopping moment, a deep chuckle rumbled through
his chest.  "That's right, I forgot about your inquisitive nature."

Embarrassment chased the last of the fog.  "I--I didn't mean to
snoop."

"Of course you did."  He pulled her against him and kissed the top of
her head.  "Hope you weren't too shocked by what you turned up."  "Not
shocked ... curious maybe."  "I'm flattered."

"Oh, don't start that again."

"Why not?  It's flattering being the object of a beautiful woman's
irrepressible curiosity."

Holding her close, he backed up to the mattress and fell with her to
lie sprawled on Mother Noonan's quilt.  In a flash he rolled her
beneath him and maneuvered himself between her legs.  He ground against
her, letting her feel the throbbing power of his need for her.

His earthy abruptness triggered thoughts of another time.  Another bed.
Another man.  The last of her desire shattered, too fragile to
withstand the crushing weight of her memories.

"Logan, I--"

He silenced her with a hard, demanding kiss as hands roamed freely. She
lay limp and unresponsive.  Gradually he raised his head and let his
eyes do the asking.

"I can't," she said.  "I can't do it."

"Zara..."  he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his
forehead to hers.  After a moment he rolled off her and lay staring at
the ceiling, breathing ragged.

"I'm sorry."  Stiffly she reached for her tunic.  He massaged his
forehead.  "Don't say that!"  Her back to him, she shoved her arms in
the sleeves and swiftly did up the tiny buttons.  When she was almost
done she realized they were out of alignment.  Exasperated, chagrined
and frustrated beyond measure, she cursed and started unbuttoning,
double time.

He sighed.  "Zara."  She felt his knuckle skip down the bumps of her
spine.  "You have no reason to be sorry.  You know that.  Right?"  She
didn't trust her voice.  "Right?"  he repeated.  She nodded.

"Things just got ... out of hand.  I guess it's a good thing one of us
was able to exercise mind over hormones."

She sagged.  It was just as well he considered her reticence the result
of superior willpower.

"Say something," he implored.  "I hate it when you clam up like
this."

"Why do we have to talk about it?"

He swore softly.  "We don't have to talk about it, dammit.  I don't
want to talk about it.  I just want to know ... I don't know what I
want to know.  Okay?"  "You're angry."

"I'm not angry!"  In a milder tone he added, "I'm frustrated."

"So am I."

Behind his mirthless half laugh was an unspoken question: Why?  If you
wanted it, why did you make me stop?

She said, "I thought I could.  I wanted to.  It's me, not you.  I have
too much ... baggage.  That's all."

He was silent a long time.  Finally she looked over her shoulder to see
him lying on his back, watching her, his expression unreadable.

He asked, "You want to tell me about it?"

She swallowed hard and turned away.  "No?"  She closed her eyes for a
moment.  The tears were too close to the surface, the pain too fresh,
even after so long.  Taking refuge in the mundane, she lifted her bra
from the floor and started to rise.  She'd change, wash up and get
ready to leave.

His hand on her hip stopped her.  "Is it my brother?  You told me he
didn't--"

"He didn't.  This isn't about him."

At length she heard the rustle of movement, felt the mattress shift as
he sat up.  "Who?"

She barely heard her own watery whisper.  "I've never told anyone."
Don't make me say it now.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her against his
chest.  She resisted, stiff and unyielding.  He relented and simply sat
behind her, his warm breath stirring her hair.

"Tell me," he murmured.

The ugliness had festered inside her so long, it had become a part of
her, changing her forever, setting limits--defining the woman she now
was.  She could never go back, never again experience the simple joy in
her sexuality she'd once taken for granted.  She tried for a light
tone.  "I'll pass."  "Who hurt you, Zara?"

She started to rise.  He stopped her with a gentle hand and turned her
to 'face him.

She sighed.  "Why can't you just drop it?"

"Because you can't.  On the surface maybe, but not inside.  Whatever
happened to you, it's cut real deep."  She pushed her fingers through
her disheveled hair.  "Logan.  You're a problem solver.  You think if
you throw enough manpower or firepower or, I don't know, ingenuity at
any problem, it'll just go away."  Feeling her throat tighten, she
said, "Not all problems can be made to go away.  Some you just have to
learn to live with."

He stared at her.  "She could tell he wasn't used to being thwarted.
Finally he said, "When you're ready to talk about it, I want to
listen."

The last thing she intended to do was parade her 'shame before this of
all men, this conjurer who'd managed to reignite her long-dormant
libido.

"Thanks for the offer."  She pulled away from him and headed toward the
bathroom.  "I'll be ready in five minutes."

Chapter Ten

The man who stood in the doorway was rangy and rawboned, his
salt-and-pepper hair sleep-rumpled.  Zara saw an unmistakable
resemblance to Logan and Mac in the eyes and the strong lines of the
face.  A thin flannel bathrobe covered striped pajamas.  He spared Zara
a brief, apathetic glance, before fixing his gaze on Logan.  There was
nothing apathetic--or paternal-in the look he gave his son.

"It's 1:00 a.m?"

"This can't wait."  Logan shoved his way past his father, pulling Zara
along in his wake.  Clearly he didn't expect an invitation.  They
entered a shabby living room with slip covered furniture and pressboard
paneling.

The old man said, "I don't want your mother upset."

"If you don't want her upset, don't harbor fugitives from the law."

Loathing added ten years to his father's weathered face.  "I'm ashamed
to call you my son."

Shocked, Zara looked at Logan.  His implacable expression never
changed.  The chasm between these two was deep and wide.  Whatever
familial intimacy they'd once shared was long gone.

"Douglas...?"

She looked up to see an older woman standing at the top of the stairs,
zipping her green velour robe.  Her tired eyes widened as she took in
the scene below.

Douglas waved her away.  "Go back to bed, Mad-die."

She hesitated a moment, and started to retreat.  Zara sensed her best
hope was about to slip away.  She approached the bottom of the steps.
"Mrs.  Byrne?"

Douglas started toward her.  "What the hell--" Logan grabbed his arm.
The old man jerked as if he'd been burned.  Zara wondered when the
father and son had last touched.  She climbed two steps.

"Mrs.  Byrne.  I ... I know this isn't easy for you.  But I'm asking
you, please, give us a few minutes.  Let us... let me talk to you."

Mrs.  Byrne clutched the collar of her robe as if armoring herself. She
asked Logan, "Who is this person?"

"My name is Zara Sutcliffe.  I'm in trouble and I need your help."

Mrs.  Byrne said, "Your troubles are no concern of mine."  She turned
to go back to her room.

Zara advanced one more step.  "Is your son Mac a concern of yours?  He
tried to kill me, Mrs.  Byrne.  If it weren't for Logan, he'd have
succeeded."  Douglas raged, "Get out You lying--"

Logan restrained him.  "We're not going anywhere fill we get some
answers, Dad, so just settle down."

Zara never took her eyes off Logan's mother.  "I know what it's like to
love someone who's ... difficult to love.  It never gets easier.  But
at a certain point you have to say, I've given all I can."

The old woman raised her chin.  "I'll never give up on my son.  That's
not the kind of family we are."  With a distasteful look at Logan, she
amended, "That's not the kind of parents we are."

"No one can blame you for loving Mac, or wanting to protect him," Zara
said.  "I love my family, too.  I have a mother, a twin sister. They--"
She choked on the emotion erupting within her.  "He has them. Both of
them.  Mac kidnapped--"

"That's not true?"  Madeline Byrne gripped the white-painted metal
banister for support.

Zara struggled to contain her tears.  "I wish to God it weren't true.
We don't know where they are.  We don't know where he's holding
them."

Mrs.  Byrne stared at Zara, through her really, shaking her head.  It
was a mechanical gesture, lacking 'conviction.

Zara forged ahead.  "Did Mac ever say anything about a movie prop?  A
ray gun from an old horror movie?"

Madeline looked at Douglas.  He stared back, sending his wife a silent
message.

Zara said, "It's a long story, but someone's willing to pay two million
dollars for that gun.  Mac has progressed from theft to kidnapping to
attempted murder over it.  I just want--" She pressed a hand to her
mouth, but it was no use; the fragile thread of her control had
snapped.  "I just want them to come home," she managed to say around
gulping sobs.

Logan Started toward her, but she held him off with a raised palm. With
effort she composed herself and took a deep breath.  "My mother's name
is Candy.  My sister is Emma," she told the Byrnes, urging them to
envision their son's victims as actual people.  "Emma and I were raised
without our mother.  We reestablished contact with her just five years
ago.  I've barely ... ha rely had time to get to know her."

If Candy survived this horror, Zara would let her live with her as long
as she wanted no complaints.  As far as she was concerned, her mother
could wallpaper the place with her preposterous posters.

Madeline seemed to deflate, sinking onto the top step, hugging the
banister.  More than anything, she simply looked fired.  "We don't know
where he is."

Douglas quickly interjected, "We told you.  We're not in touch with
him.  Mac hasn't been here in months."

Logan asked, "Well, one of those times that he wasn't here, he got my
phone number from your message board."  He peered into the kitchen.
"It's still there, I see.  I was hoping you'd use it yourselves."
Douglas glared at his son, his jaw working.  Logan said, "If you have
information that can help us locate Mac, and you choose not to share
it, you're responsible for whatever happens to Candy and Emma.  It's
unlikely Mac will let them live--they can identify him.  He's attempted
murder twice so far that I know of.  I don't imagine he'll fail a third
time."

Douglas's expression was stoical-except for the eyes.  They gave away
his internal torment.  After a silent, prayer-filled minute, Madeline
said quietly, "We don't know where he is.  He won't tell us."

"Maddie..."  Douglas warned, but his vehemence had evaporated.  Like
his wife, he seemed inexpressibly weary.

Logan placed his hand on his father's shoulder, and the old man
flinched.  "Help us end this.  For your sake.  For all of us.  And for
Mac."

Douglas's shoulders slumped.  "What can we do?  He doesn't tell us
much.  He could be--" he raised his arms "--anywhere."

"Didn't he say anything to indicate a general location?  City? 
Suburbs? He can't be too far from the city.  He seems to come and go on
a regular basis."  "Nothing," Douglas said.  "Not a hint."

Madeline said, "He told us he was living at his co-op in Manhattan."

"Did you believe him?"

Their silence was eloquent.  Zara could only imagine Logan's pain in
knowing his parents had, through their unquestioning support, abetted
Mac's criminal activities.

Logan said, "You don't have a phone number for him?"

They shook their heads.

"How often has he been coming around?"  Madeline said, "About once a
week."  "When was he here last?"

His father's gaze slid away.  "Earlier today."  Those two words hung in
the air like a foul odor.  Logan's features tightened.  Zara knew what
he was thinking.  If his folks had just cooperated with him... Candy
and Emma could be free now.  Safe.

Madeline slowly pushed to her feet.  "I'll make some coffee."

Zara moved aside to let her pass on the stairs.  She could have told
her coffee was the last thing Logan wanted.  He was interested only in
answers, but those, unfortunately, were in short supply.

Like a mourner, Mrs.  Byrne seemed to be relying on routine activity to
keep her mind occupied.  Perhaps she, too, was plagued by unwelcome
thoughts--guilt at her complicity, regret for the man Mac might have
been.  The time for self-delusion was Past.  She could no longer ignore
her troubled son's true nature.  Logan asked, "Has Mac been staying
overnight?"  Douglas said, "Sometimes."

"Dad, you stay with Morn.  I'm going to check out the bedroom," see
what I can turn up."

"I don't think you'll find much," Douglas said.  "He's very neat, your
brother."

Logan's expression gentled for the first time since he set foot in his
parents' home.  Despite everything, Zara sensed he was moved by their
grief "Keep Mom company.  I think she needs you."

Zara followed him up the stairs.  The room he led her into was small,
furnished with twin beds and an eclectic mix of timeworn furniture:
desk, dresser, bookcases.  The walls were devoid of artwork.  If the
boys had once hung posters, they were history.  No trace of the young
Logan remained.

She asked, "Did you share this room with Mac?"

He nodded.  "In a dinky house like this, separate rooms were out of the
question."

"That must're caused some strain."

He smiled at the understatement.  "You could say that."

She followed his lead, helping him search the room thoroughly.  They
scrutinized the contents of every drawer, peered under the furniture,
stripped the beds and rolled up the throw rug.  Logan pulled
Mac's'extensive comic-book collection off the shelves and shook out
each one.

"There must be hundreds there," she said.

He held up one for her to see.  The cover art featured an exotic
science fiction scenario: a hair-raising alien monster and a half-naked
space babe.  Claws and cleavage.  "He was into these strange comics
just like he was into the movies and all that other check-your7
brains-at-the-door stuff.  He could sit here in this little room and
lose himself for hours in this crap."

He stuffed the comics back on the shelves.  "But the worst was the
computer games.  Back when home PCs first became available, he
pressured Morn and Dad to buy him state-of-the-art hardware, on credit,
even though it strapped them."  He grimaced.  "They were overjoyed that
he was showing intellectual initiative.  They had no idea he wanted it
just to play his bizarre games.  He quickly got hooked on those.  Still
is, as far as I know."

They emptied the closet and refilled it.  Nothing, No store receipt. No
restaurant matchbook.  No clue as to Mac's whereabouts.

"Your father's right," she said.  "He's neat."  "Intentionally, no
doubt.  He had to know that sooner or later I'd come here, looking for
clues.  His calling me was practically an invitation."

Zara lifted her fingers and smoothed the lines of his face, erasing the
fierce scowl etched into his forehead and around his mouth.  His gaze
settled on her and softened.

She could have this, at least.  This closeness, this camaraderie.  For
as long as it lasted.

Still stating at her, he pressed her palm to his mouth and kissed it.
It was a simple gesture, one might even say innocent.  But there was
nothing innocent about the sparks that shot down her arm and raced over
her body.  There would never be anything innocent in her response to
this man.  It was a bittersweet fact of life.

She asked, "Are' we going to search the whole house?"

He sighed.  "There's no point.  He's obviously covered his tracks."  He
stared around the room, as if he could see through walls.  "He's
probably out there somewhere right now, laughing at me."

"Come on.  Let's get out of here and let your folks get some sleep."

"There is one more thing I need to check."  Downstairs they found
Douglas and Madeline in the kitchen, talking in hushed tones.  They
held hands across the table.  Sudden tears clogged Zara's throat. 
Their quiet grief brought to mind, once again, the mourning process.

The analogy was uncomfortably vivid.  She couldn't shake the sense of
impending death.  Intellectually she knew the mission she and Logan
were engaged in was rife with danger, but fear for her family had
nudged that unpalatable fact into the recesses of her mind.

However, here, in Logan's boyhood home, as she watched his parents cope
with the horrible reality they helped to create, that gut-clenching,
palm-dampening fear resurfaced, stronger than ever.  She wanted to flee
into the dark, into the dead middle of the night, and not look back,
even as she knew she intended to see this thing through to the end, no
matter what.

She found Logan stating at her, as if he could read her mind.  He
reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

Her rock.

In return, she offered a tentative smile.

He asked, "Dad, have you taken out the garbage since Mac left?"

"Yeah.  It's outside."

She followed Logan as he let himself out the side door, where the porch
light illuminated a beige plastic garbage can.  He pushed up the
sleeves of his windbreaker, lifted the can and emptied it onto the
cracked asphalt driveway.

She said, "Forgive me if I sit this one out."

He grinned at her.  Good heavens, the man Could even look gorgeous
squatting over a pile of garbage, pawing through grapefruit peels.
"Wouldn't want you to mess up your manicure."

The clatter of miniblinds drew their eyes to a dim second-floor window
next door.  Moonlight glinted off blue hair in curie va

Logan turned and waved jauntily.  "Why, hello there, Mrs.  Morgam
Glorious night, isn't it?  How's that enchanting daughter of yours?"

The window slammed shut and the blinds dropped.

Zara shook her head.  "You must've been one holy terror growing up."

"Nonsense.  The neighbors adored me."  He tossed aside coffee filters
and milk cartons.

She imagined poor Mrs.  Morgan fretting over the virtue of her
enchanting daughter with the twin hellions next door sniffing around.

Logan sat on his heels.  He scratched his nose with his clean forearm.
"Nada."  Puffing his cheeks with frustration, he grabbed the garbage
can to begin refilling it, when something inside snagged his attention2
He tilted the can toward the light and peered into it, then snaked his
arm deep into the foul thing.  "Ewww..."  Zara shuddered with
revulsion.

He retrieved a half-inch-long scrap of paper that must have adhered to
the bottom of the can.  Examining it closely, he called to his
mother.

She appeared behind the screen door.  "What is it?"  Her dismayed gaze
took in the trash littering her driveway.

"I don't recognize this name."  He raised a fingertip, displaying the
soiled price sticker.  "Abernathy

Books.  Is that a new store in town?"

"No..."  Her brow wrinkled.

"He brought you a book, remember?"  Douglas said from behind her.  "A
cookbook."

"Yes, that's right.  A Southwestern cookbook.  Mac loves my chili. Oh."
She clutched the collar of her robe.  The significance of the find had
just sunk in.

Cold triumph glittered in Logan's eyes.  "Aber-nathy Books.  Get me the
county white pages."

Chapter Eleven

Abernathy Books wasn't in the Orange County white pages.  The next step
was to check the phone books of neighboring counties.  Madeline
suggested they stay over and visit the library when it opened the next
morning, but Logan was already dialing Lou's number.  As a PI."  she
had the national directory available on computer software.  He knew she
wouldn't complain about being jangled awake in the middle of the night,
and she didn't.  He waited a couple of minutes while, yawning, she
booted up her Pentium and slipped a disk into the CD-ROM.

He hung up with a smile on his face.  "Hobart.  Rockland County."

Rockland was the next county east, closer to New York City.  They'd
driven through it on their way to the Byrnes'.

In minutes they were on their way.  Zara fell asleep almost
immediately.  He glanced at her, slumped like a rag doll in her
shoulder harness.  He knew she was still weak.  He'd promised both Lou
and that ER doctor that he'd take care Of her.  Perhaps he should have
taken Madeline up on her offer and stayed the night.

No.  It was better this way.  Zara wanted an end to this as badly as he
did.  And they weren't going to end it by lazing around the old
homestead.

Zara had been right, he thought with wonder.  She'd gotten through to
his folks when all his efforts had failed.  Simply by reaching out to
them, expressing empathy with their plight and faith in their basic
humanity.  It was something he couldn't have done, being too close to
them and at odds for so long.

He punched buttons on his CD pad and Dave Grusin's "Mountain Dance"
wafted softly from the.  BMW's speakers.  The music was soothing and
invigorating at the same time; just what he needed.

THE SHOWER in the Shangri-La Motor Hotel was a forlorn dribble, but
cold enough to jazz Logan awake.  He wrapped a thin, motel-quality
towel around his waist and reentered the bedroom, where Zara lay curled
up under the covers of one of the two double beds.

Before leaving the warehouse, he'd called Gage with the news that Mac
had Emma.  That had been rough.  He'd heard in Gage's Southern-tinged
voice the same anguish and impotent rage he'd felt himself when he saw
Zara floating facedown in her sister's pool.

The comparison didn't sit well with him.  Gage and Emma had a
relationship.  As far as he could tell, they were in love.  Whatever
Logan felt for Zara, it wasn't the same thing.  It couldn't be.  He
wasn't like Gage.  He'd seen too much of life's unforgiving side,
endured too much betrayal.  Perhaps he'd once been that kind of man,
the kind who could be there for a woman like Zara Sutcliffe.  The kind
who could offer her the love she needed and deserved.  The kind who
could help heal the hurts that ate away at her.

For the first time ever, he wished he were still that kind of man.

He sat next to her and watched her sleep.  The day was overcast,
and-anemic light filtered through the drapes, softening her features
and making her look heartbreakingly vulnerable.  She should be back in
her fancy penthouse apartment, he thought as he whisked a strand of
hair off her cheek, or behind the cluttered desk in her hectic office.
She should never have been touched by this horror.

She made a face in her sleep, one eyebrow arching imperiously.  He
smiled and stifled a chuckle.  Was she.  reacting to his touch?  Even
unconscious, she pushed him away.  Twice now she'd rebuffed him, and he
knew it wasn't because she was uninterested or un-responsive.  The
truth was, he'd never known a more passionate, responsive woman.  He
wished she'd tell him the cause of her panic, though he had a pretty
good idea, and it burned a hole in his gut to think about it.

He didn't want to wake her, but the sun was climbing and he had plenty
of legwork to do today.  He was itching to get started.  They were in
the small town of Hobart, and he could practically smell his elusive
quay.  Instinct?  Or merely wishful thinking?  Either way, he felt
charged, drunk with the heady scent of blood, like some fetal beast
stalking its prey in ever-narrowing circles.

"Zara.,."  His touch became firmer as he stroked her sleep-warm face
and urged her to open her eyes.  "Come on, honey ... time's
a-wastin'."

She rolled onto her back and stretched languorously, ending on a
deliciously carnal little grunt.  Her eyes drifted open and she looked
at him with a drowsy smile.

"Sleep well?"  he asked.

Her gaze skipped down his bare torso and lower, to the scant towel held
in place by little more than the clingy dampness of his skin.  If she
was embarrassed to see him in a state of dishabille, she hid it well.

Her voice was morning-husky, practically indecent.  "Like a rock.  Why
is that, do you think?"

"Could be because you're exhausted, still recuperating.  You should be
home resting, not gallivanting around the state."

"I'm not gallivanting.  I'm traipsing."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yeah, you want to know what it is?"

"Nope."

She pushed herself to a sitting position.  "So what's on tap for the
day?  What do we do first?"  "What's this 'we' stuff, Kemosabe?"  "Oh,
don't start!  I'm in this, too."

He rose and started rummaging through his duffel lying open on the
other bed.  He'd brought extra clothes for both of them, though when
she'd seen the color combination of the sleep ensemble he'd
chosen---olive green undershirt paired with crimson satin boxers--she'd
been less than thrilled.

He said, "I'll start at that bookstore, but something tells me I won't
have much luck there."

She finger-combed her tousled hair.  "You're hoping someone remembers
Mac?"

"Yep."  He pointed to his face.  "Or recognizes him."

Her eyes brightened.  "I hadn't thought of that."  He pulled out
underwear, fresh jeans and a black polo shirt.  "This is the closest I
have at the moment to Mac's sartorial elegance.  It'll have to do."

"He wears his hair loose."

"I know."  He hooked a thumb under the towel and sent her a warning
glance.  "If your heart can't stand the shock of my naked stallion like
splendor, you'd better cover your eyes now."

Her lopsided grin was bewitching.  "Stallionlike, huh?  See, now you've
gone and piqued my curiosity."  She settled back to enjoy the show.

Logan whipped off the towel and tossed it on the bed.

And Zara looked.  With simple appreciation and, yes, curiosity.  Though
there was nothing salacious in her regard, he felt the first stirrings
of tumescence and made short work of stepping into his briefs.

"Did I lie?"  he asked.

A slow smile.  "Stallionlike.  Is this where I twitch my tail and
whinny like a mare in heat?"

So much for flaccidity.  He quickly dragged his jeans over his hips and
gave himself a little adjustment before zipping up.  If this filly
twitched her tail just once, he'd bar the stable doors and to hell with
Abernathy Books.

He said, "If you want to come with me, you'd better get that tail
moving."

Zara yawned hugely with a placating little wave that failed' to inspire
confidence.  He grabbed the damp towel and twirled it into a menacing
corkscrew, advancing on her.

"I'm up!"  She tossed off her covers and dashed into the bathroom, but
failed to dodge his well-aimed fanny flick.

ABERNATHY BOOKS WAS a cozy, old-fashioned bookstore on the, main drag
in Hobart.  The young saleswoman didn't recognize Logan, but the
manager did.  She asked how his mother had liked the Southwestern
cookbook.  He wasn't surprised by how open and friendly she seemed--his
brother could be quite the charmer.  A' few subtle questions revealed
she'd only seen Mac the once and had no clue as to where he might be
staying.

He prayed the price sticker wasn't a false lead.  It was possible Mac
had simply been passing through when he stopped in Hobart to purchase
the book.  If so, they were back to square one.

They made their way through the sleepy town, moving from the hardware
and video stores to the five-and-dime, supermarket, deli, fast-food
places, service stations, restaurants and bank.  No one recognized
Logan's distinctive face.  If Mac was in residence, he was keeping a
low profile.

It took them the whole day to finally hit pay dirt.  At Hobart Liquors
the owner perked up when he spotted Logan and asked if he could get him
his usual fifth of Absolut.  They ascertained only that Mac had been a
regular cash-and-carry customer for several weeks.

The pharmacist, too, recognized Logan and asked if his busted ribs had
healed.  Gage would be pleased knowing he'd inflicted that much damage
during their tussle.  Like the liquor store, the pharmacy had never
delivered anything to Mac's home, so there was no record of where he
was staying.  But at least now they knew he was local.  And where Mac
was, Candy and Emma most likely were, too.

In the early evening they found themselves at Mallory's Ale House
discussing their progress over thick bacon burgers and waffle-cut Cajun
fries.  The pub offered fifty-six varieties of draft beer; they both
chose an India pale ale.

Logan was relieved to see Zara's shoulders shimmy in delight at her
first bite of the messy burger, appetite being a reliable barometer of
health in his book.

He said, "Mac's probably renting a place under an assumed name."

"Can we lay a trap at your parents' house?"  "We could do that, but
chances are it'll be days before he makes another appearance there.
They said he visits only once a week--"

"And he was there just yesterday," she finished.  "We can't delay that
long, not when we might be so close now to where he's holding Morn and
Emma .... "

Logan took a long pull of the cold, deliciously bitter ale and leaned
back.  His plate was' empty.  Zara was still methodically plowing
through her meal.  He said, "You gonna finish that?"

"Yes, and I'm going to take my sweet time doing it, so hands off."

He hailed the waiter and ordered another pile of fries.

Zara took a delicate bite of the well-done burger-Logan's had been
blood-rare--and wiped her fingers on her napkin.  "So far, we've taken
sort of a scattershot approach, canvassing the local businesses."  "You
have a better idea?"

"I don't know.  Let's think about what in particular might lead us to
your brother.  What special needs does he have, no matter where he
is?"

Logan thought about it.  He shrugged.  "Anyone with a home and car
could have need of repair people.  But the local service stations
haven't done any work for him.  And I can't see visiting every plumber
and electrician within a twenty-mile radius."

She leaned forward on her elbows, her beautiful face screwed in
concentration.  "What's important to Mac?  What can't he live
without?"

Staring into Zara's eyes, he knew the instant the idea struck her--the
same instant it struck him.  "Computer!"

"You said he was really into computer games."  "He's addicted," he
said.  "I'll bet he spends a lot of time surfing the Net, too.  There's
no Place to buy computers or software in Hobart, but we can check out
the neighboring towns."

She picked up one of her Cajun fries and examined it contemplatively.
"What if his machine went on the fritz?"

"He'd waste no time getting it fixed.  Mac loves his computer games,
but he's no expert on how the thing runs.  He's always relied on
outside people, not just for repairs but for technical advice,
designing systems, you name it."

A silent communication arced between them, an implicit agreement on
their next plan of action.  The young waiter arrived with the fries.

Logan said, "Do you guys have a computer here?"  "Sure.  But the boss
is happy with it, you know?  I don't think he wants to upgrade if
that's what you're--"

"No, I'm not in the business.  I'm looking for a computer whiza
consultant or repair guy.  The hard drive in my laptop crashed."

The waiter's brow furrowed.  "Lemme ask Joe.  He knows about this
stuff."  He circled the brick half wall separating the dining portion
of the pub from the bar, where several tall, decorative beer taps stood
sentry.  After a brief confab with the bartender, he returned with a
name and phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin.

"Joe says this guy's the best propeller head in the area.  Everyone
around here uses him."

"Barry Geffier," Logan read.  "Can I use your phone?"

"I guess so.  It's behind the bar."

Logan dialed the number on the napkin and listened to the phone on the
other end ring and ring, He pictured the nerdy "propeller head" hunched
over a state-of-the-art computer in some cluttered little room,
tweaking and customizing hardware and software for his clients.

Geffier finally picked up on the twelfth ring.  Logan explained he had
a problem with his laptop and needed immediate help.

"I can give you, like, Friday morning."

"And I can give you two hundred bucks cash if you're at Mallory's
within fifteen minutes."

"Order me a Watney's stout."

Click.

Twelve and a half minutes later a tall young man sauntered through the
door and scanned the sparsely populated pub.  He was in his early
twenties, with thick sun-streaked hair, electric blue eyes and a day's
growth of whiskers on the kind of jaw usually associated with the word
chiseled.  His athletic build was displayed to advantage in a brown
leather jacket and snug black jeans.  A motorcycle helmet was tucked
under one arm.

"Think that's him?"  Zara whispered, eyeing the guy up and down.

Her voice had a mildly breathless quality that Logan found irksome.  He
started to say, "You've got to be kidding," when the newcomer spotted
him and waved.  He strode toward their booth.

"Hey!  How ya been, man?"

Logan automatically shook the proffered hand.  The young man offered
Zara a brilliant smile, which she returned.  "Barry Geffier.  I did
some computer work for Logan here a while back."

Logan?  Was that Mac's idea of a joke, using his detested brother's
name, or was it just one more symptom of his long-standing jealousy?

Zara appeared momentarily nonplussed as she introduced herself and
offered her hand.

Barry turned to Logan.  "Any more problems with your sound card!"

"Nope."

"Cool.  Listen."  Barry checked his intricate digital watch.  "I don't
wanna be rude or anything, but I've gotta meet a guy here within the
next two minutes and nineteen sec--"

"Sit down."  Logan shoved Barry's glass of beer across the scarred
wooden table and slapped four fifties next to it.  "I called you."

"Whoa.  Why didn't you say it was you on the phone, man?"  He slid onto
the hard wooden bench and exchanged another dazzling smile with Zara,
who scooted over to make room for him.

This was the local computer geek?

Logan said, "Barry, I'm going to ask you some questions that will seem
very strange.  Answer them anyway."

He shrugged and lifted his beer.  "Fire away."  "What's my full
name?"

Barry stared at him over the rim of the glass.  He glanced at Zara
before answering, "Logan Smith.  Least, that's what you told me."

"I assume you came to my home to do this work... ?"

A wary "Yeah..."

"When?"

"Uh ... about three weeks ago, wasn't it?"

That was before Mac kidnapped Candy.

"Where do I live?"  Logan was close, so close.  He could taste it.

A slow grin spread across Barry's handsome face.  "Come on, man. 
What's this about?"

Zara smiled sweetly.  "I'd really like you to answer his question,
Barry."  She gave his leather-clad arm a gentle squeeze.

Logan sent her a quelling look, the one Where he tilted his head down a
fraction and glared menacingly from under his brows.  Subtle but
usually spectacularly effective.  She just turned that sweet smile on
him.

Barry eyed them warily.  "I don't know This is too weird."  Logan
snapped two more fifties out of his wallet and held them up."  "River
Road."  Barry's pupils dilated as he stared at the money.  "You're
renting the old Mac Allen place."  Zara said, "Which is where exactly?"
"On the north side of the road.  It's the only house between Harrison
and McKinley.  It's, like, isolated."  Logan as led "Is there a street
address?"  Barry shrugged.  "Beats me.  It's just the old Mac Allen
place, you know?  Well, You know."  Logan tossed the fifties at him and
surged to his feet.  "Hey!"  Barry scooped up the cash.  "Don't you
want to know anything else?  Ask me what kind of car you drive.  How
much RAM your laptop has."  The only question left was one none of them
could answer.  Is it too late for Candy and Emma?

Chapter Twelve

Zara sat on the edge of the motel bed, watching Logan check his weapon
and spare magazines.  Suddenly this thing was too real, too now, her
family's fate too precarious.  What if Mac panicked and killed them?
Didn't Logan say he could panic' Did you hear what I said?"  Logan was
watching her.

She licked her dry lips.  "Sorry."

He laid the gun on the dresser and sat opposite her on the other bed,
his knees bracketing hers.  He took her icy hands in his big, warm ones
and stared down at them, rubbing them with his thumbs.  He looked at
her, searched her eyes.

"Trust me, gara."

She nodded automatically, her throat too tight for speech.

He squeezed her hands.  "I mean really trust me.  I intend to end this
thing.  Tonight."

He had to feel the fine tremors coursing through her, into her
fingertips.  "I guess I thought... I thought I was stronger than this.
I fooled myself."  She tried to smile.  "One of my many talents."

He leaned forward slowly.  Placed a soft kiss on her forehead.  "You're
so hard on yourself.  Why are you so hard on yourself?"

She couldn't meet his eyes.  "Logan ... will you just hold me?
Please?"

He pulled her onto his bed and stretched out next to her, one long arm
circling her back.  She tugged off her sling-back heels and tossed them
over the side.  Reaching over her to the night table, he switched off
the light, swaddling them in a comforting gloom that seemed to amplify
the distant sounds of traffic.  She curled into him, slid her arm over
his waist.  He felt big and solid and indestructible.

The thought came to her again.  If anyone could bring her mother and
sister home, it was this man.

The warm masculine scent of him had long since burned itself into her
subconscious, acting as a tranquilizer, a balm to her frazzled psyche.
She breathed deeply and let her eyes drift shut.

She felt her body begin to relax, her heart rate to slow.  She'd allow
herself this, these few precious moments of serenity.  She'd let
herself pretend that everything was all right.  Just for a few
moments.

She mumbled, "I'm gonna fall asleep."

"Go ahead.  I'll try not to wake you when I leave."

Her eyes snapped open.  Her eyelashes brushed his shirt as she blinked.
"I'm going with you, Logan."  He laughed.  "Go to sleep."

She tried to lever herself up and look at him, but it was dark and she
could barely make out the amber glint of his eyes.  Before she could
state her case, he said, "You're staying here, Zara.  This is not
negotiable."

Restraining her objections, she settled back into his arms, knowing she
had no choice but to back down.  For the moment.

His hand stroked her back in a slow, soothing rhythm.  Unconsciously
she burrowed closer to him, pressed her cheek to his steady heartbeat
and let her legs twine with his.

She took comfort in the intimacy of their embrace, even as she
acknowledged her body's first glimmerings of arousal.  Along with the
novelty of the sensation came grim resignation.  This wasn't for her.
Not anymore.

His fingertips skimmed her face, observing her as a blind man might,
his touch light but thorough.  His deep voice rumbled through her.
"You're sad.  Tell me why."

This man was more attuned to her feelings after six days than her
ex-husband had been after six years.  She said, "I want what I can't
have."

He sighed into her hair.  His arms tightened fractionally.  "We all
want something we can't have, Zara.  That doesn't keep us from trying.
It's what makes us human."

"What do you want that you can't have?"

He stroked her hair.  Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.  "I'd
have to say ... I want a part of me back that I've lost."

Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears.  That was exactly how she felt. She
didn't care that her voice betrayed her emotion.  "What have you lost,
Logan?"

"The piece of me that..."  He seemed to be searching for the words.
"That shouldn't belong to me at all, but to someone else.  The part of
me I should be able to give away.  I'm not saying this very well."
"You're saying it just fine."

He was telling her he couldn't love.  She felt his sense of loss.  It
mirrored her own.  Whatever he'd been through that had made him feel
this way, she wished he'd share it.  But she knew she couldn't ask him
to trust her with his pain; it would have to come from him.

He said, "Tell rab what you want.  What you think you can't have."

She murmured, "I think you know."

After a few moments he said, "You don't feel ... whole.  Because
someone hurt you."

Whole.  She'd never thought about it in just that way, but now that
he'd said it, she knew it was true.  She hadn't felt whole in a long
time.

Last night he'd said if she wanted to talk about it, he Wanted to
listen.  He wouldn't ask her again.  Who hurt you?  God knew she didn't
want to talk about it, had never talked about it, but suddenly she did
want him to understand.

She whispered, "It was Tony."

She felt his heart thud faster.  He waited.  Waited for her to say it.
Suddenly she wished desperately that he would say it for her.  He had
to know.

She choked on the words.  "He raped me."

His arms crushed her.  A wrenching sob tore up through her, rising on a
swell of anger and shame.  "He raped me Logan."

She couldn't breathe for the tears choking her.  She was shocked by the
overwhelming magnitude of her anguish, chagrined that Logan was witness
to it.  But through it all he held her, so tight she melted intO him.
He stroked her hair, murmured in her ear, urging her to let it out.

At length her grief wound down.  She gulped great, shuddering breaths,
her face still pressed to his shirt, soaked with her tears.

He reached across her again to grab a handful of tissues.  She wiped
her face and blew her nose and tOssed the wadded tissues in the general
direction of the wastebasket.  Her face felt hot, her eyes puffy.
Inside, she felt lighter, as if the tears she'd released .  had been in
there all along, weighing her down.

At last Logan said, "When did this happen?"  "At the end, when he was
served with divorce papers.  I don't think he ever expected me to take
the initiative and leave him.  He was outraged.  He wanted to hurt me.
Debase me.  So he did."

"And you never tOld anyone?"

"No.  I was too ashamed.  I pulled myself together, covered the bruises
with makeup.  No one knew."

"Zara."  He cupped her face, as if trying to read her expression in the
dark.  "I know you're too smart to blame yourself for what he did to
yOU."

"It's not that I blame myself.  It's not that.  It's just ... I knew
I'd failed him.  As a wife.  What kind of wife makes a man want to do
something like that?"

She sensed Logan's frustration.  He paused as if struggling to find the
right words.  "You said it yourself, Zara.  He attacked you because he
wanted to hurt you.  Don't you see?  It wasn't about you.  It was about
him, and his twisted ego.  No failure on your part, no matter how much
you think you may have let him down, made him do what he did.  Nothing
justifies it."

"I--I mow that, it's just..."

"The guy spent six years belittling you, convincing you you're
worthless."  He shook his head, his voice tinged with disgust.  "He and
your old man, what a pair.  It's like I said before.  They were a
couple of control freaks, threatened by your independence, your
competence.  Deep down, I'm sure they knew you didn't need them.
Would've been better off without them."

"Logan, you've inly known me a few days," she observed sadly, "and
you've only heard my side of things.  Dad and Tony lived with me for
years.  You don't think maybe they knew me a little better than you
do... ?""

He leaned up on an elbow; she felt his tension.  "You tell me, Zara.
Did Tony know you?  Did he know when you needed an encouraging word,
someone to listen to your frustrations and your fears?  Did he know
when you needed him to praise your accomplishments, support your
decisions?"

His words stunned her into silence.  He was describing the perfect
wife, the ideal, nurturing partner she'd tried to be.  As liberated as
she thought she was, she'd never associated that kind of emotional
sustenance with a husband's role.

Not that she was an expert on husbands' and wives' roles.  Her early
exposure to the institution of marriage had presented a distorted
picture at best.  She'd been raised in a broken home, presided over by
a cold, authoritarian father who'd ruthlessly separated his infant
daughters from the mother they'd needed.

The truth was, Logan did know her better than either her father or her
husband had, Hadn't she just marveled at how attuned he was to her
emotions?  Logan saw inside her ... and, incredibly, he liked what he
saw.  He believed in her goodness.

His quiet voice broke into her thoughts.  "Answer me, Zara.  Did Tony
really know you?"

"No."  The admission was as liberating as it was depressing.  "No, he
never knew me."

"And neither did your father.  And all those spiteful things they said
about you...?"

She laughed.  This sweet, stubborn man actually .

had her laughing!  "A vicious crock of lies."  "There!  I knew you'd
figure it out."  "Yeah, perceptive little ole me."

She sensed his smile even before she lifted her fingers to explore his
face as he'd explored hers earlier.  She felt the fan of crinkles at
the corner of his eye, the furrows bracketing his mouth.  His lips
responded to her touch, closing gently over a fingertip.

The dark magnified everything: the feel of his lips, supple and greedy,
drawing her finger into his hot mouth; the tantalizing scrape of sharp
teeth, in startling contrast to the velvet stroke of his strong, lively
tongue; the rhythmic suction that urged her to respond.

She gave in to his silent command and moved her finger to the cadence
he set.  Such a simple act, yet so blatantly sexual.

Her soft moan triggered an immediate response.  He jerked her hand away
and hauled her close, his mouth finding hers with unerring precision in
the dark.  He kissed her urgently, hungrily, holding her tight,
squeezing the air from her lungs.  But she didn't need air, she only
needed this voracious mouth, this silky tongue stabbing deep and hard
until her very insides clutched at the hot, stroking length of it.

At last he broke off, panting.  "Zara":..  what you do to me..."  She
lay clinging to him, trembling, struggling to make her brain function.
Still holding her, he dropped his head to the pillow, clearly fighting
for control.  "I guess a cold shower is in order."

He let his words hang there as silence stretched between them.  She
knew what he was waiting for.  It was her call.  She'd have to make the
next move.  He wouldn't push her.  She wanted him so badly it hurt, yet
with each passing second, her courage slipped a notch.

Both her father and her husband had found her sadly lacking.  Yet here
was this remarkable man who saw qualities in her they never had,
qualities she herself hadn't known were there.  The prospect of
disappointing him terrified her.  She lay still and mute, paralyzed by
her cowardice and the old insecurities.

After a minute he started to ease away from her.  She stopped him with
a light touch.  And swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

"Don't," she whispered.

He sat still, waiting.  When she said nothing more he slid an arm
around her and urged her to lie with him again, curled against his
side.

He said quietly, "I want you to know, I can be very gentle."

The simple declaration, obviously meant to calm her, instead sent her
pulse into overdrive.  But why?  Gentle certainly had no place in the
fantasy her unruly imagination had concocted these last few days, a
fantasy featuring Logan Byrne as the energetic, inventive lover
instinct told her he was.  "He'd already demonstrated his sexually
assertive nature, and she'd be lying if she claimed it didn't excite
her.  That excitement was due in part to the fact that she felt safe
with Logan; she knew he'd never cross the line into unwanted
aggression.

Yet somehow, she found his soft-spoken reassurance just as
exciting.-This vigorous, virile man was ready to rein in his natural
impulses by sheer force of will, summoning all his tenderness and
patience for her sake.  Not the seduction she'd fantasized, but potent
stuff in its own right.

His hand glided across her shoulder to the collar of her soft rayon
blouse, half of a calf-length two-piece dress.  His movements were so
leisurely she didn't notice he was working the buttons free until she
felt cool air whisper between her breasts.  Her breath caught.

"Do you want me to stop?"  His tone was so casual he could have been
talking about the weather.  She didn't answer.  He started rebuttoning
her blouse.  "No!"  she rasped.

His nimble fingers returned to their task.  She lay on her side,
perfectly still, feeling her heartbeat quicken with every button he
released.  When he reached the waistband of her skirt, he ragged out
the tails of the blouse.

With maddening nonchalance he flicked the fabric aside and ran his hand
lightly over her breasts, cleavaged to the max by her side-lounging
position.  He ran' a fingertip along the lace of her bra.  "What color
is this?"

Her voice was hoarse.  "Red.  You packed it."

"Oh yeah, I did.  I like red."

He eased first one arm out of the blouse, then the other.  He unclasped
her bra and drew it off her, his attitude composed, almost
indifferent.

"Logan... ?"  She hadn't said yes yet, didn't know if she could.  What
was he doing?

"Stay here."

She felt the mattress dip as he rose and crossed the room.  The
bathroom light flicked on.  After a few moments his large form
reappeared, silhouetted in the bathroom doorway.  He kicked off his
sneakers before joining her on the bed once more.  He sat cross legged,
and in the meager light washing in from the bathroom she saw him uncap
a tiny plastic bottle--one of the toiletry samples left for motel
guests.

He held the open bottle under her nose.  "Lotion."  She sniffed the
light floral scent.

"You're very tense," he said, pushing on her shoulder, urging her onto
her stomach.  "When was the last time you had a back rub?"  He lifted
her arms from her sides, and she folded them under her head.

"When I could still afford it, before the divorce."

"A back rub's like sex not the same if you have to pay for it."

He levered himself over her with pure masculine grace to straddle her
buttocks.  He kept his weight off her, but still she was acutely aware
of his heat, where his sinewy, denim-clad thighs touched her hips.

He placed the bottle on the night table, and she heard a wet sound as
he warmed some of the lotion in his hands.

"Relax," he said.  "You're stiff as a board."

She took a deep breath and willed the tension from her body
Nevertheless, his first touch made her jump.

His warm, slick hands glided over her skin.  Splayed, they felt huge,
practically covering her entire back.  He pushed them from her waist
slowly up to her shoulders.  A little sigh escaped her.  Her elderly
Austrian masseuse had never had hands like these.

His long, strong fingers kneaded the tight muscles at the base of her
neck, turning them to jelly before moving on to her shoulders.

She moaned, feeling herself begin to relax.  "Mmm, you are good at
this."

"I'm good at everything I do, Zara."

She smirked at the not-so-subtle implication.  His thumbs worked their
way up her spine, molding the flesh on either side of it.  He worked
methodically, isolating muscle groups, pressing and stroking until she
lay limp as a rag.

He warmed more lotion and worked on her sides, starting at her waist
and moving upward.  When he reached the sides of her breasts, pressed
against the quilted bedspread, he didn't hesitate but massaged them,
too, while his thumbs rubbed her shoulder blades.  Feeling ridiculously
tranquil, she basked in the pampering ministrations of those long,
slippery fingers--and in the faint hum of awareness resonating from
somewhere deep within her.

At some point her sluggish mind registered the subtle change as pure
relaxation gave way to a sensual lethargy.

He finished with light, sweeping strokes of her back.  "Turn over."

She roused herself to obey, peering up at him through half-open lids as
he once again lifted her arms over her head.  His dark hair lay loose
around his shoulders.  His eyes were unreadable in the dim light, but
held an underlying intensity that raised her listless pulse just a
fraction.

He pal reed more lotion 'and began at her waist, smoothing his hands
over her abdomen, stroking outward, applying just the right amount of
pressure.  She watched him, watched the muscles of his shoulders bunch
and relax under the black polo shirt.  Maintaining the same indolent
pace, he worked on her rib cage.  His hands skated up her sides to her
shoulders and upper.  arms giving each area special attention.

He moved on to her chest, kneading those muscles, lifting and massaging
her breasts as he did so.  His expression never changed.

That hum of awareness within her rose in pitch and volume.  She
wondered vaguely if he could hear it, feel it.  His hands glided
outward across her chest, and she felt her peaked nipples scrape his
palms.  Her eyes closed on a faint whimper.  They slowly drifted open
and she saw him watching her face, studying her.

He swept his hands down her torso and up again, gave her shoulders one
last firm stroke and sat back on his heels.

"Better?"  he asked, swinging his leg over her, dismounting.

Her response was an inarticulate grunt.  Yes.  No.  Don't stop.

She knew she should be embarrassed by her obvious arousal rathe stiff
peaks of her breasts, the flush that warmed her face and chest--but she
was too relaxed to care.  And somehow she knew that with this man, she
had nothing to feel embarrassed about.

For the first time in years, she welcomed the yearning, luxuriated in
the little signs heralding the excitement building within her.  For the
first time in years, she took joy in her rising passion.

He settled on his side, propped on an elbow.  "I don't have to stop.  I
think there are still a few pockets of tension left."  He slid a hand
up one stocking-clad shin.  and under the hem of her long, loose skirt.
She felt it glide upward between her thighs, and gasped as his hot
fingers met the bare skin above the tops of her stockings.  It was too
intense.  She quivered like a bowstring, pressing her legs together.

"See?"  he said, letting his hand linger there, a hairbreadth from the
seat of her desire.  "You're still tense."

She managed to croak, "You're a very wicked man."

He looked devastatingly handsome with that arrogant grin and those
sparking golden eyes.  "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings."  He
moved his fingers, stroking the sensitive insides of her thighs.

"How do you propose to make it up to me?"

She chuckled.  "Very, very wicked..."

His fingers slid upward a fraction to skim the silk of her panties. The
sharp buzz of sensation there, right there, galvanized her, lifting her
hips off the bed.  Automatically she started to reach for his wrist,
then dropped her hand.

No.  She didn't want to stop him.  She knew that now.

He smiled gently.  He saw it all, she could tell: her internal
struggle, her implicit answer.

Yes.

He gave her thigh a little squeeze and withdrew his hand.  "Where does
this open?"  He searched the waistband and found the side button.
Within seconds she lay there in only her red satin thong panties,
matching garter belt and sheer black stockings.

"I've fantasized about seeing you in these things for too damn long."
Taking her hand, he wordlessly invited her to stand up and model for
him.

She willingly did so, reveling in the look in his eyes, in the
knowledge that she was desired, in her ability to strip away this man's
civilized veneer and expose the snorting, pawing, howling beast within.
He said, "Turn around."

She did--and wished she could still see his expression, knowing what he
was looking at: her bare back and nearly bare bottom, its very
nakedness enhanced by the slim thong and the garter straps hooked to
her stockings.

As she stood there for what seemed an eternity, she began to comprehend
what all the fuss was about, why Logan had assumed her lingerie
collection had been purchased by a man.  She'd never felt more
alluring.

He touched her bottom and she drew in a sharp breath.  Her muscles
jumped under his lightly stroking fingers.  He moved on to her hips,
her back.

His breath was hot on her neck as his hands came around to cover her
breasts.  "Have I ever told you how very beautiful you are?"

"I--I think you have."

"Well, I can't say it enough.  You have an effect on me that's
practically illegal."  He turned her and pulled her into his arms, and
she felt the illegal effect immediately, prodding her belly through his
jeans.

He tipped her head back and took her mouth with all the eagerness and
impatience she herself felt.  He nibbled her lips, sucked on them,
tasted them thoroughly before deepening the kiss.

She shuddered as his tongue slid past her lips.  He held her fighter,
crushing her breasts against his shirt.  Before Logan, she had never
appreciated this kind of kiss, but now she understood what that fuss,
too, was about.  She couldn't restrain herself and didn't try.

He groaned as she responded in kind, timidly at first.  The tip of her
tongue touched smooth, even teeth.  It flicked over the pointed crest
of a canine, and she shivered at the feral images that came to mind.
His tongue engaged hers in a primitive mating, until they had to break
off for air.  He pressed fast, moist, dizzying kisses to: her face, to
her cheeks and eyelids and temples.  If he hadn't been holding her, her
legs would have buckled.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he said.  "What do you like?"

She experienced a flash of panic, feeling woefully unsophisticated, a
fraud.  "I--I don't know."  When had it ever mattered what she liked?

"I know your breasts are very sensitive.  Do you like this?"  he
murmured, caressing her with feathery, teasing strokes.  He ran his
thumb around the peak of one breast, watching it tighten further.  A
desperate little sigh escaped her.  "I think that was a yes."

He leaned down.  His humid breath curled over her breasts as he
murmured, "And this?"  He placed a soft kiss on one aching tip.  Her
knees wobbled.  "Logan..."  she groaned.

"Do you like it?"  he persisted.

"Yes.  Yes?"

He sucked the nipple deep into his mouth, and her legs gave out.
Scooping her into his arms, he deposited her diagonally across the bed.
She writhed as he suckled and caressed her, holding fast to him,
tangling her fingers in his long hair.

He seized her mouth in a hard, savage kiss as he parted her legs and
fitted himself against her.  She grasped his buttocks and arched into
him, the pressure of his arousal tantalizing, maddening.  If not for
the ban' let of their clothing, he'd be inside her.

And every nerve, every quivering synapse, screamed for him to be inside
her.

Abruptly he lunged across her and upended his duffel on the other bed.
He found the string of condoms, tossed them on the night table and
yanked off his shirt.

Zara found his stampeding urgency immensely arousing.  Kneeling on the
bed, she reached for his belt buckle and slid leather through brass
with trembling fingers.  She dragged open his bulging zipper and closed
her hand over his penis through his briefs.  He twitched and pulsed
under her fingers.

His harsh sigh sounded almost pained.  He stood very still, muscles
tensed.  She began to tug his jeans over his hips, but he lost patience
with her slow progress and commandeered the job.  In seconds he was
nude.

The urge to touch him was overpowering.  She ran her hands over his
corrugated belly and the lean, hard muscles of his hips and thighs. His
heavy erection nodded from its thicket of dark hair.

She felt raw, remade, as if her hurtful past had been wiped clean and
she were discovering her woman-hood--her birthright--for the very first
time.  Tears of joy stung her eyes.  She pressed a tender kiss to
Logan's chest.  He cradled her head in those huge, capable hands

"Zara?"  Frowning, he lifted her chin.  "Are you crying?  Did I
upset---"

"No.  No, I'm ... happy."

His expression softened.  He brushed his thumb across her mouth. "There
hasn't been anyone since

Tony, has there?"

"No."

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do.  You can stop me at any
time."  He offered a lopsided smile.  "It'll kill me, but you can do
it."

"I know that."

He leaned down and kissed her, almost chastely.  Hooking his fingers in
her panties, he tugged them halfway down her thighs, until her garter
hooks got in the way.  He scowled at this unforeseen dilemma, clearly
unaccustomed to old-fashioned stockings.

Before she could unhook her garters, the professional problem solver
reached for his jeans and extracted a small penknife from a pocket.  He
flipped it open.  "Hold still."

She watched wide-eyed as he slit the sides of her panties, folded the
knife and tossed it and her mined thong on the pile of clothing.

"I'll buy you another one."

"Don't worry about it," she said breathlessly as he gently pushed her
onto her back.  Her legs hung over the side of the bed, and he knelt on
the carpet between them.  Her heart thumped in anticipation.

He skimmed his hands up her thighs and brushed his thumbs through the
dark tangle of hair.  She wondered, could he see it, her body's hungry,
grasping response?  Exerting subtle pressure, he parted her, opened her
to his avid gaze.

She clutched the 'bedspread in white-knuckled fists, her hips rocking
of their own accord, imploringly.  When his mouth touched her there she
screamed.  With his fingers and lips and strong, lithe tongue he
quickly brought her to the razor's edge of release and held her there,
teasing, backing off, teasing again.

She thrashed beneath him, sobbing her pleasure, unencumbered by pride
or modesty overwhelmed by the sheer joy of sharing herself with this
man.

He broke away to tear a packet off the string of condoms.  A heartbeat
later he was kneeling before her once more, pulling her closer and
holding her legs wide.  His eyes held her spellbound never straying
from hers, as he filled her in one slow, deep thrust, a leisurely
penetration she felt in every cell of her body.

His thick, unyielding length opened her, stretched her almost to the
point of pain.  She wrapped her legs around his waist, her panting
breaths punctuated by sharp little cries of pleasure.

His eyes closed as he pressed home the final distance, flexing into
her.  She felt her climax begin to crest, amorphous filaments of pure
sensation fusing, gel ling even as he lingered within her,
motionless.

Still staring at him, she smiled at the pure wonder of what was about
to happen.  "Logan," she whimpered, "hold me!"  Without his strong arms
grounding her, she'd surely fly apart.

But he already knew, just by watching her face.  Already he was
gathering her to him, holding her fight Her rock, her anchor.  His
first tiny movement spurred her orgasm.  It burst within her, rocked
her off the bed, a white-hot firebomb of pure light a0.  'd energy.

He drove into her, fast and fierce, stoking the flame, making it burn
hotter, brighter.  He tilted her hips, altered the angle and cadence of
his thrusts, prolonging her release.

She clung to him in the aftermath, panting, trembling, laughing
breathlessly.  His answering grin was part affection, part pure
masculine conceit as he brushed strands of damp hair off her forehead.
She knew he was exerting immense control, balanced on the high wire of
his own climax.  She felt him everywhere inside her at once, a rigid,
throbbing presence that nudged the very heart of her.

Pushing up on her arms, she wriggled off the bed and onto his lap,
still joined with him.  She kissed him, delicate nipping kisses, and
began to move once more.

"Zara!"  He gripped her hips hard, holding her still.  "Not yet..."  In
the same breath he growled, "Oh, hell."

He plunged and retreated without restraint, guiding her movements.  In
the end he rammed her against the side of the bed and came with a
savage cry.

Zara knew she'd never seen anything as beautiful as Logan's face when
he toppled from the high wire.

Chapter Thirteen

Zara slipped her shoes on, watching Logan get ready to leave for Mac's
place.  He donned his shoulder holster and pulled his hair back in his
usual ponytail.  Shrugging into his black windbreaker, he said, "I'll
be back in a minute.  Have to get something from the car."

He stepped out, and she allowed herself a little smile of triumph.  He
hadn't said a word when, instead of curling up and falling asleep after
their exhaustive lovemaking, she'd gotten dressed.  She took that as a
hopeful sign that he'd changed his mind about letting her come along.
She hadn't mentioned it, though, preferring not to press her luck.

When one minute turned to five, then ten, she realized he'd been gone
too long.  Had he skipped out on her?  His BMW was parked in front of
their room.  Surely she would have heard him drive away.  She was
halfway to the window when the muffled thunk of the cat's trunk
sounded, followed moments later by the rasp of his key in the door:

He entered carrying a small satchel, which he dropped on a little
writing table in a corner of the room.

She asked, "That took long enough.  What did you get?"

"Come here.  We need to talk."  He swung the straight chair away from
the table.

Uh-oh.  She approached slowly, marshaling her arguments, all the
rational reasons she should accompany him.  First and foremost, she was
terrified for Logan's safety.  What if he needed backup?  He had an
extra gun for her, she was sure.  And what if Candy or Emma was hurt
and needed her?

"Logan--"

"Sit down."  He patted the chair and moved behind it to open the
satchel.

She sat.  "I want you to listen to me before you make a-What are you
doing?"

He'd pulled her arms behind the chair back.  She felt something wind
around her wrists.

Rope!

He was tying her up!

"Don't fuss.  You'll hurt yourself."  He deftly knotted the nylon cord.
It was just tight enough to hold her securely without impeding
circulation.

She kicked wildly as he squatted in front of her and reached for a leg.
"Owl" he yelped.  "Damn!"  He yanked off her delicate high-heeled
sling-backs and stared at the things as if they were some diabolical
new weapon.-Tossing them aside, he made short work of securing her
ankles to the front chair legs.

She was speechless, trembling with rage.  He arranged her long skirt
demurely over her knees.  "I know you, Zara.  The minute I took off,
you'd call a cab and follow me."

Well, of course she would.

He continued, "I told you before, I'm not willing to endanger you."

"You--you're just going to leave me here like this?  Tied up?
Helpless?"

"Only until I return."  He stood up.  "And if I don't make it back--"

"No!"  she cried.  "Don't say that."  She couldn't bear the thought of
Logan being hurt--or worse.  Especially after what they'd just shared.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to shed one tear.  She had to keep her
wits.

He sighed.  "We both know the risks, Zara.  That's why I stopped in the
motel office just now.  Arranged for a baby-sitter for you."

"A what?"

"Lucky for us, the assistant manager's just getting off work."

A knock on the door startled her.  Logan crossed the room in three long
strides and ushered in Bette Davis.  This was Bette in her scary later
pictures, squirrelly and pop-eyed.

The woman took two steps into the room and stopped dead in her tracks,
staring at Zara bound to the chair.  Logan closed the door and whipped
out his bogus FBI badge.  He wagged it in her face to snag her
attention.

"Special Agent Logan Pierce."  He gravely in toned, "Mrs.  Feeney, the
FBI needs your help."  Zara muttered, "Oh, brother."

He snapped the badge wallet shut and was about to return it to his
pocket when Mrs.  Feeney's sand paper voice stopped him.

"Not so fast.  Lemme see that again."  She plucked a pair of reading
glasses from a canvas tote bag filled to overflowing with skeins of
yarn in pastel shades.

Sliding them onto her nose, she scrutinized the ID.  Zara said, "Logan,
this is pathetic."

He ignored her.  "Mrs.  Feeney, the Bureau occasionally must enlist the
aid of concerned citizens such as yourself.  This is one such time.  I
need you to guard this prisoner for a few hours while I'm gone"

She handed back the badge.  "What'd she do?"  "You don't recognize
her?"  She studied Zara.  "Should I?"

"Don't you watch "Unsolved Crimes' ?"

"Good grief!"  Zara jerked at her restraints.  "Stop wasting this poor
woman's time, Logan.  Let me go!"

Mrs.  Feeney answered, "I try to catch it, but my craft group meets on
Sundays."

Folding his arms, Logan jerked his head toward Zara.  "This one was
featured a few weeks ago.  She and her gang have robbed twenty-three
banks across the Northeast.  I just caught up with her--she was about
to knock over Hobart Savings Bank."

Mrs.  Feeney's eyes bulged alarmingly.  "My nephew works in that
bank!"

Zara moaned, "I don't believe this."

He Said, "I was transporting her to prison when I got news of a
kidnapping nearby."

"That's true!"  Zara said.  "That last part's true!  It's my mother and
my twin sister who've been kidnapped, by his twin brother, and he's
just doing this so I can't follow him and help to free them!  And."

She hopped forward a little in her chair.  "He isn't really an FBI
agent, Mrs.  Feeney!  That badge is fake!"

Mrs.  Feeney stared at her as if she'd sprouted a third eye.

Logan shook his head sadly.  "Pitiful, isn't it?  I've seen this
before.  When the law catches up to them, they go kind of nuts,
spouting the first crazy thing that pops into their heads.  You'd never
think, looking at her now, that she's killed three bank guards in cold
blood, WOuld you?,

"No," Mrs.  Feeney said.  "I wouldn't."

"I'm going to leave you with this, in case she manages to get free." He
pulled a hefty black revolver out of the satchel.  Zara and the
assistant manager both gasped.  "Have you ever used a gun, Mrs.
Feeney?"  "God, no!"

"It's very simple."  "He drew a bead on Zara, two-handed.  "You just
aim, like this, and pull the trigger.  See?  Nothing to it."

"Don't you have to cock it first?"

"That's a very good question.  Nowadays all revolvers are
double-action.  Like this one, which hap pens to be a .357 Magnum."

"Oh my."

"You can Cock it if you want to--like this--and that makes the trigger
more sensitive, easier to pull.  Or you can just shoot without cocking
it, in which case it'll take a little more effort to pull the trigger.
But watch out--this weapon has quite a kick."

He handed the gun to Mrs.  Feeney, who practiced pointing it at her
bound prisoner, squinting over the top of her reading glasses.  The gun
wobbled as her finger groped for the trigger pull.

Logan chuckled.  "Easy now, you don't want to shoot her just yet."

"Oh!"  She giggled sheepishly, one hand fluttering at her chest.  "No.
Not yet."

"Hel-lo-o," Zara said.  "Have you lost your mind, Logan?  You're not
really going to run off and leave me at the mercy of Baby Jane here?"

Mrs.  Feehey Said, "Young lady, we'll get along just fine if you can
manage to behave yourself."

He turned to Mrs.  Feeney.  "If she gets loud, or you get tired of
listening to her rantings, feel free to gag her.  Now, this part is
important."  He scribbled something on the scratch pad next to the
phone.  "If I'm not back by 2:00 a.m."  call this number and ask for
Lou."

"What do I tell him?"

Zara shouted, "Her.  It's Louise.t You tell her her good buddy Logan's
gone off the deep end!  You tell her Zara's going to rip his damn heart
out when she gets free."

Mrs.  Feehey scowled down at her.  "I have had just about enough of
that mouth of yours, missy.  You've brought this all on yourself, you
know."

He told Mrs.  Feeney, "If you have to call Lou, you just tell her
everything I told you, and follow her instructions."

Baby Jane settled on a stuffed chair with her knitting and her firearm.
Logan paused in 'the doorway, answering Zara's murderous glare with a
disarming wink.  "I can tell you two are going to get along just
fine."

THE windows at the front of the house glowed.  From his hiding place
fifty feet away behind a huge oak tree, Logan watched a shadow move
behind sheer curtains.

Mac.

He'd done reconnaissance when he'd first arrived, cautiously circling
the huge Tudor-style house with his small flashlight, checking out the
doors and windows.  He'd identified the louvered basement window as
being the best place to break, in.  It wasn't wired to the security
system a were the other windows, but was boarded from the inside. Also,
it was located at the rear of the house.  If Mac remained in the front
room, chances were he wouldn't hear Logan enter.

"He was about to head around back when the sound of car tires on gravel
arrested him.

"Damn."

Moonlight glinted off a sleek gray Mercedes, rolling to a stop on the
circular driveway.  When the driver's door opened, the interior light
illuminated an older man, trim and well dressed, early to mid-sixties.
Using an elegant brass-tipped cane for leverage, he eased out of the
car.  As his shadowed form made its way up the walk and the front
steps, Logan detected a pronounced limp.

Frustration surged within him, but he tamped it down with the
discipline he'd spent fifteen years honing.  Emotions compromised one's
perspective.  He'd wait, watch, adapt.

But as he'd told Zara, he intended to end this thing tonight.

The front door swung open and Logan got his first clear look at his
brother.  Mac stood in the entryway, drink in hand.  He appeared
surprised to see his visitor, then angry.

The older man held his own, practically shoving his way into the house,
despite his handicap.  Mac slammed the door after him.

Logan crept closer, risking a move into the open, knowing his brother
was distracted at the moment by his unwelcome guest.  Silently he
gained the house and stepped over shrubs to take up position near the
half-open living room window.  Heated voices drifted to him.

"deadline's tomorrow, William."

"Did you think I'd fork over eight million without even seeing her for
myself?."

"How'd you find me?"

The breeze fluttered the curtains, and Logan got glimpses of the two
men.  The visitor, William, stood straight and dignified, one
powerful-looking fist 'clenching the head of his cane.  His wavy hair
was steel gray, his thick eyebrows black.  Intense gray-green eyes
followed Mac's agitated pacing.

William's voice was deep and assertive.  "You've underestimated my
resources."

Mac sneered.  "These the same 're sources' that'll make me sorry if
something happens to your beloved scream queen?"

"The very ones.  And the same goes for the daughters, too, as we
discussed on Monday."

It was a clash of wills, Logan realized, between two bullheaded men,
neither of whom was accustomed to being thwarted.  This William had to
be the bucks behind the theft of the ray gun.  What was his interest in
Candy Carmelle?  Why was he willing to pay that kind of money for her?
If he were simply some wealthy crackpot collector, he wouldn't be so
concerned with the safety of Candy and her daughters.  There had to be
some history here.

Mac asked, "Do you have the money?""

"I have the money."  Through the gap in the curtains Logan saw
William's cold smile.  "Not on me, of course.  I may be obsessed, as
you put it, but I'm no fool.  Where is she?"

Mac stared at him, and Logan could almost hear the gears turning in his
twin brother's head.  How far should he cooperate, how much leverage
did he have, how much of William's threats was bluster?

Eight million was at stake, if he'd heard correctly.  Logan grimaced.
The going price for a well-preserved former starlet.

Finally Mac said, "I'll get her.  You wait here."  He headed toward the
back of the house.

Left alone, William seemed to lose some of his starch.  He leaned
heavily on his cane, looking almost haggard, as if the worry and
remorse Logan saw etched on his features were as crippling as his
disability.  When footsteps sounded; he snapped upright, his expression
once more stony and forbidding.

Mac hauled Candy into the room with a brutal grip on her upper arm. She
looked rumpled but intact, with an undeniable spirit behind the dark
eyes that reminded Logan of her daughters.

Candy's defiant expression changed the instant she laid eyes on
William.  Logan was right.  There was history here, in spades.  Her
gaze held enough love, longing and regret-for a lifetime.

William barked, "Release her!"

Mac hesitated an instant, then obeyed, giving her a little shove.
William and Candy stared at each other.  Logan sensed a deep connection
between these two.  Still they stood apart, not touching.

William's voice was hoarse.  "Are you... all fight?"

She nodded, and choked out, "Billy, he--he's got my daughter.  My
Emma."

William's hard gaze shot to Mac, who was taking in this little reunion
with interest.  "I warned you--"

"I knew it.  You two do know each other--from the old Hollywood days,
am I right?"  Mac's grin was malignant.  "Chill out, Billy.  Emma's not
hurt.  I caught her snooping around.  What was I supposed to do, let
her get the cops on my tail?"

"She leaves with her mother.  Bring her here."

"No one goes anywhere until I get paid.  I've waited too damn long
already."

The angry voices faded as Logan skulked around to the rear of the
house, picking his way in the dark until he reached the basement
window, set behind a brick-lined window well.  Squatting on the bricks,
bracing one hand against the wall, he snapped the top louvered pane
with a sharp tap of his heel.  He plucked the two halves of glass from
their frame before they could clatter into the rock-lined well, then
dispatched the remaining panes the same way, swiftly and noiselessly.

No sound came from behind the plywood coveting the opening.  His senses
were on the alert; anything could be behind that barrier.  Drawing his
nine-millimeter, he let fly with a solid kick.  The plywood groaned and
cracked, leaking spears of light from the, room below.  One more
well-placed blow splintered the board--and a good portion of the
paneling it was nailed to.

Weapon at the ready, he peered down into the room and saw Emma
Sutcliffe tied hand and foot to a straight chair--exactly the way he'd
left her sister, except he hadn't shoved a grubby cloth in Zara's
mouth.  Emma was staring up at him, her eyes huge.

It seemed his 'brother had come to the same conclusion he had: trussing
her up was the only way to get a Sutcliffe woman to stay put.

"It's Logan," he whispered, and she nodded vigorously, obviously
realizing Mac would have no reason to break into his own basement.  His
limited interactions with Emma before Gage had taken her to Arkansas
had shown her to be resourceful and level-headed.  He hoped those
qualities remained in good supply after her recent ordeal--she might
need them tonight.

He eased himself through the window opening, feet first It was a tight
fit.  Shards of wood snagged his jeans and windbreaker and gouged a
furrow in his cheek.  He dropped lightly to the worn tile floor,
crossed to Emma and pulled the rag out of her mouth.

"He took Mom upstairs," she whispered urgently as he sliced her
bindings with his penknife.  "He's never done that--"

"Shh, I know.  It's all right."  He crept up the wooden steps toward
the closed door, alert for sounds of Mac returning for Emma.

"Is Zara all right?  I've been so"

"She's fine.  She's, uh--" tied up at the moment "--here in town,
somewhere safe."

She started to follow him, but he waved her back.  "Stay here!"

"I heard voices.  Someone else is up there."

"It's someone named William--he's trying to buy your mother's release,"
he whispered.  "She called him Billy."

She gasped.  "Oh, my God.  Mom was right.  It was Billy!  Logan,
he's--"

"Shh!"  He tested the doorknob---yes!  Mac had left it unlocked,
obviously figuring Emma wasn't going anywhere.  "Stay down here!"  he
repeated.

He let himself out and moved through the first floor, silent as a
wraith, following the sound of voices.  Passing through the kitchen
into the dining room, he slipped around the perimeter and hugged the
wall next to the arched entrance into the living room.

Logan hoped Mac would acquiesce to William's demand and head back
downstairs to fetch Emma.  With his brother safely isolated from the
others, Logan could surprise him, subdue him, and no civilian would get
hurt in the process.

And then it would be over.  His tormented brother would get the help he
needed, and Logan would have peace.  He'd be able to get on with his
life.  And so would his victims.

William was saying, "I don't think you fully appreciate how precarious
your situation is, Mac.  You've gotten sloppy, allowed your greed to
affect your judgment."

"Don't give me that crap.  We have a deal."

"Do we?  Try this deal on for size.  I walk out of here with Candy and
Emma.  In return, I refrain from turning you in to the authorities."

Mac sneered, "While we're on the subject of precarious situations--how
far do you think an old gimp like you would make it to the door?"

"You're assuming no one knows I'm here."

In the strained silence that followed, Logan could almost smell his
brother's escalating panic.  He tightened his grip on his' weapon.  Mac
was unpredictable under the best of circumstances.

Mac growled, "You're bluffing.  The last thing a guy in your position
would do is let it leak that he's tangled up in nasty business like
this."

"Oh, my sensibilities aren't quite so delicate as all that, Mac.  I've
survived worse--and from men who make you look like an Eagle Scout.
This isn't a battle you're going to win."

Logan tensed at Candy's shrill cry.  Mac must have grabbed her.  The
fearful whimper that followed told him her life was in immediate
peril--Mac was armed.

William's voice was tight, controlled.  "Hurting Candy can gain you
nothing."

"Call off your watchdogs, then we'll talk."  Logan heard Emma racing up
the basement stairs, Obviously alarmed by her mother's scream.  In the'
heartbeat of time it took his trained mind to analyze the
situation--and the inherent potential for disaster-Logan had already
swung into the archway, gun leveled at his brother.

Startled, Mac jerked around to face him, using Candy as a shield, a
small semiautomatic pressed to her temple.  If Logan had harbored any
lingering hope that his brother was sane, it shriveled as he stared
into those hard golden eyes so like his own.  And yet so alien.

William and Candy appeared momentarily stunned at seeing their nemesis
confronted by a virtual clone of himself.  Emma charged into the dining
room.  Without breaking eye contact with Mac, he waved her behind him.
William stood tense and watchful, obviously frustrated by the
limitations of his damaged body.  Candy's eyes were fixed on Logan; she
appeared frightened but alert.  Instinct told him he could count on her
not to panic and make some sudden wrong move.

Mac said, "Have you folks met my illustrious brother?  The hotshot
G-man.  Or I should say former G-man."  He chuckled.  "Even the damn
FBI was too corrupt for him!"

"Don't make this worse, Mac.  I know you want to end this thing as much
as I do."

Logan's two-handed grip on his gun never wavered.  Only he was aware of
the tension radiating into his arms, his hands, his finger poised on
the trigger.

Don't take aim if you're not prepared to shoot.  It was the first thing
the firearms instructor had taught him at the academy.

was he prepared to look into his brother's eyes, his own eyes, and pull
the trigger?

He felt sweat pop out on his upper lip.  His eyes burned, staring
without blinking, staring at this brother whom he both loved and hated.
Could he?  if he got a clear shot... ?

Mac's eyes glowed with triumph.  "You can't do it, can you, bro?  You
can't shoot me.  Hey, remember when I broke into the Tarantinos' garage
and swiped those bikes?  Remember how you stood up for me, backed up my
alibi?  What were we then, twelve, thirteen?  Forty bucks, I got for
those bikes.  We laughed like hell after and split a pizza.  A whole
pizza, remember?  "Cause I had all that cash burning a hole in my
pocket."

He addressed his captive audience.  "That's the kind of brother this'
guy is.  Loyal.  Remember those days, bro?"

Logan remembered.  He didn't want to, but the memories swarmed in on
him from all directions.  The fights.  The laughs.  The scrapes with
the law.  The way the two of them always stuck together.  The deep love
he felt for this brother whom he'd always.  tried to protect.

He thought of his mother's tear-choked plea before he drove away that
morning.  Whatever he's done, Logan, he's still family.

Candy's dark eyes remained glued to Logan's.  He read fear, yes, but
more than that, trust.  In him.  This woman was counting on him to save
her life.

It was no more than he'd promised her daughter--his passionate,
tormented, hardheaded Zara, who'd managed in six short days to peel
away years' worth of cynicism and mistrust and expose a man he'd
thought long gone.

Trust me, he'd told her.  I'll do everything in my power to end this,
to see your mother and your sister safe.

His grip eased and his mind cleared.  Infused with a renewed sense of
purpose, a cold resolve, he steadied his aim.

Mac said, "You know you're not going to shoot me, Logan.  Toss the gun
over here."

Logan doubted his brother's sophomoric fixation on Candy Carmelle would
do her any good now.  At that moment Mac's actions were driven by
panic, and by his hatred for Logan.

When Logan failed to obey, Mac jerked Candy tighter and adjusted the
angle of the gun barrel against her temple.  Behind him, Emma gasped
softly.  William tensed, his knuckles gleaming white around the brass
handle of the cane.

Mac said, "If you don't lose the gun within the next five seconds,
she's dead."

Logan knew he wasn't bluffing.  He tossed his nine-millimeter at his
brother's feet.  Grinning, Mac knelt with Candy, grabbed the gun and
pocketed it, then started backing up to the front door, hauling his
hostage along with him.

What would he do with her when he got away?  The answer was obvious.
She was of no further use to him.  Logan's backup weapon, a slim .380,
was holstered under his jeans at the small of his back.  He prayed Mac
would become overconfident and lower his guard.  But just as in the old
days, his brother seemed to read his mind.

"Keep those hands high, bro.  Don't make me nervous."  Mac reached the
door and groped behind him for the knob.  Holding Candy in a viselike
grip, he eased the door open and started to back through... And froze
when his head encountered the muzzle of a gun.

Zara materialized behind him, 'holding the .357 Magnum Logan had left
with Mrs.  Feeney.

The unloaded .357 Magnum!

Emma whimpered, "Zara.  Oh, God."

Zara said, "Give me the gun, Mac."

His obdurate expression told Logan he had no intention of cooperating.
Zara thumbed the hammer back.  Moonlight glinted on the cylinder as it
revolved with a well-oiled snap-clunk.  Mac flinched.

"Do it," she said'.

Did she knoW there were no bullets in that thing?  If so, she was
gambling for high stakes--her own life and her mother's.  Her audacity
and courage humbled him.  How had he ever imagined this woman as
selfish and spoiled?

"All right..."  Mac held the gun up, and Zara took it from him.  Candy
ran to Emma as Logan drew the380, all too aware that Mac was still
armed.

"Hands behind your head!"  he barked, advancing on him.

Mac started to obey even as his eyes flicked to Zara standing in the
doorway, blocking his escape route.  Logan shouted, "No.t"

Mac spun toward Zara; pulling Logan's nine-millimeter from his pocket
and training it on her in one smooth motion.

The .380 erupted in Logan's hands.  Mac jerked but remained on his
feet.  Staring at his brother in wonder, he touched the small red stain
on his chest.

The enormity of what he'd done slammed into Logan with sickening force.
He watched Mac's dazed expression turn venomous, watched as he began
raising his weapon one last time, taking aim at his brother.

Logan's initial shot had been an automatic response, an act of
necessity to save Zara's life.  Could he do it again, with cold
calculation, staring directly into Mac's eyes?  He steeled himself,
knowing he had no choice.

Suddenly William was there, his arm arcing in a blur of motion.  A
resounding crack sounded and Mac dropped heavily to the carpet, his
legs crumpling under a savage blow from the older man's cane.

Logan's gun hand slowly dropped to his side, the380 as heavy as a lead
brick.  Through a haze he heard movement, shaky voices, someone saying
to call 911.

Vaguely he sensed Zara by his side, murmuring words of comfort in his
ear, touching his face with cool, trembling fingers, urging him to turn
away from the sight of his brother lying in a twisted heap, his
lifeblood soaking into the carpet.

But he couldn't move.  Couldn't respond.  All he could do was stare
into Mac's golden eyes, wide open but unseeing.

God forgive me.

Chapter Fourteen

Zara sat slumped on the Plush burgundy sofa near the cold stone
fireplace in Mac's den, staring at the high, wood-beamed ceiling.  Emma
and her mother sat on either side of her, and she held tightly to their
hands, trying to ignore the bustle of activity in the living room.

The local police, a few uniforms and two plain-clothes detectives, had
been joined by someone from the FBI.  The coroner had arrived and was
doing whatever grisly thing coroners do to dead bodies at a crime
scene.  Zara and the others had already been questioned separately.
Candy and "Emma were waiting to be taken to the local hospital for a
checkup.

Logan was in the living room with the cops, filling them in on the
details, as cool and in control as that first day when he'd grabbed her
at Kennedy Airport.  That could have been six months ago, rather than
six days.  She wasn't the same person she'd been then.

He'd zoned out for a while after the shooting.  Nothing she said or did
seemed to get through to him.  He must have been in a kind of shock. 
It was understandable, after the horror he'd just been
through--watching his brother die by his own hand.

But as soon as the authorities began arriving, he'd transformed into
the consummate law enforcement type: cooperative, informative and
frighteningly detached.

He'd ignored her, had politely rebuffed her efforts to get him alone or
have any personal communication at all.  No mention of what would
happen in the future, or even the next hour.

Logan Byrne, her anchor, had cut her free.  She felt helplessly adrift
at a time when she needed him more than ever.  And she was certain he
needed her.

Billy Sharke, her mother's onetime movie director, sat opposite the
women on a matching love seat.  It was he who'd set this whole mess in
motion by hiring Mac to procure the gun for his private collection.  At
the time, he'd believed, as had she, that Logan's brother was a
legitimate dealer in art and collectibles.

She couldn't blame Billy for what had happened, and she no longer
blamed herself--though that was one of her specialties, she now knew,
taking the blame for others' failings.  Mac Byrne alone was responsible
for the horror she and her family had endured.

Emma leaned forward, looking past Zara to catch Candy's eye.  "It's
time."

Time for what?  Zara wondered distractedly.  Had she missed
Something?

She turned her head and looked at Candy.  The sudden apprehension in
her mother's expression alarmed her.  She sat up straight.  "Mom?  What
is it?"

Emma asked Candy, "Would you like me to tell--"

"No."  Candy squeezed Zara's hand harder.  "It's something I should're
done long ago."

Affection infused Billy's baritone voice.  "Candy ... whatever you have
to say, just give it to us straight, sweetheart.  After what we've all
been through, I don't think anything could come as a surprise."

"Oh ... I don't know about that .... "

Zara was instantly on the alert.  She'd never heard her mother sound
timid before.

Candy looked Billy in the eye.  "I never should have married John.  It
was the biggest mistake of my life."

He smiled wryly.  "What a shocker.  I kind of figured that.  one out
for myself when your bridegroom crippled me and threatened both our
lives."

Zara's heart slammed into her throat.  "What?"

Billy looked contrite.  "I'm sorry, I didn't realize-"

"It's all right," Candy said.  "It's past time all this came to light.
But the thing you never knew, Billy... It wasn't just you and me that
were in danger.  John said if I ever got in touch with you again,
he'd..."  She cast her anguished glance at Zara and Emma, her voice a
hoarse whisper.  "My babies..."

Billy paled.  He leaned forward.  "That animal threatened his own
children?"

Zara covered her mother's trembling hand with both of hers.  As
shocking as these revelations were, she didn't doubt they were true.

Candy squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

"They ... the girls weren't his.  He wasn't their father And he knew
that."

Billy's face reflected Zara's own dawning comprehension.

Candy said, "Emma and Zara are your daughters, Billy."

Billy slowly sat back.  He stared at the twins, and they at him.  Now
that it had been said, the physical resemblance was unmistakable.  The
eyes.  The mouth.

No one spoke.  The truth trickled into Zara's consciousness like water
in sand, filling the empty spaces in her soul.  Completing her.

She'd never had a father before this day.  That knowledge was somehow
uplifting.  She had a fresh start on being a daughter, on forging that
special relationship.

Billy looked as if he'd been walloped with a two-by-four.  "Daughters.
I have two daughters."

Candy said, "I don't expect you to forgive me, Billy.  I never stopped
loving you, but I ... I thought I could have something with John that
you couldn't offer--something I'd dreamed of all my life.
Respectability.  A place in society.  No more money worries.  He seemed
so devoted, so loving.  At first."

She grimaced.  "He could really turn on the charm when he wanted to.
What I didn't realize then was that I was an ornament to him, nothing
more.  It was your basic whirlwind courtship.  We were engaged before I
knew I was pregnant.  You were ... well, you weren't exactly "Father
Knows Best' material back then.  The crazy Hollywood life-style ... and
enough money.  When I found out I was did what I thought was best for
my baby--I went ahead and married John.  I'm sorry, Billy, God, I'm

SO SORRY."

Zara held her mother as she wept.

After a few moments Billy said quietly, "Candy ... don't.  Don't do
this to yourself, sweetheart."  "But it was so wrong of me."

He sighed, and in that sound Zara heard weariness, compassion and
regret for all that could never be.  He said, "And if it had worked out
the way you'd pected, if Sutcliffe had been a devoted husband and
father, then what you did might not seem so wrong.  We make decisions.
Some of them, we wish we hadn't.  God knows I have a few regrets of my
own."

Candy looked up, her eyes red-rimmed.  "I can't believe you're not
angry.  Thirty years ago you'd have thrown a fit if you'd found out
what I'd done."

He smiled grimly.  "Don't kid yourself.  Thirty years ago I'd have torn
the place apart.  People change, Candy.  The thing I don't get,
though--I can't see a guy like Sutcliffe, all ego, raising someone
else's kids as his own."

Candy said, "But that's what it was all about, don't you see?  Ego.  If
he'd let it be known the girls weren't his, it would be like admitting
to the world that his wife had gotten something over on him.  Taking
the girls from me was his way of punishing me."

Until that moment, Zara had never realized how alike Sutcliffe and her
ex-husband were.  Both had been unspeakably cruel to people they'd
sworn to love and protect, all for the sake of their precious egos.
Logan had been right about the twisted motives that drove them.

Emma said, "Billy--" She smiled self-consciously.  "I don't know what
to call you."

His answering smile was soft and downright paternal "Billy's fine.  But
if you want to try "Dad' on for size, I'm game."

She continued, "Mom said my fa--I mean, John Sutcliffe destroyed you.
He had you discredited, blacklisted in Hollywood.  You've obviously
done very well for yourself despite all that."

"Have you ever heard of Magic in Motion?"  Zara answered.  "It's one of
the companies film makers hire to create special effects in their
movies.  Monsters, tornadoes, spaceships, whatever.  M and M has been
involved in a couple of my clients' pictures.  Are you with the
company?"

"I am the company.  I created it."

Zara frowned.  "But Roger Stevenson--" "Roger's been with me from the
beginning.  He's the ostensible CEO, the front guy, and I'm--" he made
a vaporous motion with his fingers "--invisible."

Emma's eyes shone with admiration.  "You figured out a way to get
around the blacklisting."

"In a way, Sutcliffe did me a favor.  I was an okay director, but let's
face it--no Spielberg.  Back then, we had no budget to speak of on
those cheap horror flicks.  "I had to roll up my sleeves and help
hammer out the special effects--not that they were all that special.
Giant rubber sea creatures and sheet-metal robots.  But, God, I had a
blast making them.  When directing career, it seemed natural to switch
what I loved."

"Those silly effects were sPeCial to me.  I loved those giant rubber
sea creatures and sheet-metal robots."

He said, "Don't forget the decapitated head with all the electrodes.
That one's a work of art."

Zara said, "The thing under glass?  Scowling like this?"  She screwed
up her face.

"You've seen it?"

"Seen it!  The disgusting thing's taking up space in my living room!"

"I should're known she'd make off with that piece, too.  She got all my
best stuff."  He grinned proudly.

"Like a damn Pack rat, your mother was."

Zara snorted.  "Was?"

Candy said, "They helped me feel closer to you, all those props.  Your
masterpieces."

Emma asked, "Did you construct the ray gun, too?"

"Of course.  After filming,.  your mother h, ad to have that ridiculous
thing.  She, uh, convinced me to give it to her, for her personal
collection."

Zara was beginning to figure it out.  "When you offered Mac Byrne two
million dollars to buy it back from Mom, anonymously, you assumed he'd
make a reasonable profit and that she'd get to keep most of that money.
That was your way of trying to take care of her, wasn't it,
Bil---Dad?"

He looked uncomfortable.  He addressed Candy.  "I knew you'd been on
your own most of those thirty years, and it hadn't been easy for you. I
was sort of ... keeping tabs.  After Sutcliffe died five years ago and
you still didn't try to get in touch, I figured you didn't want to hear
from me."

"I thought you'd hate me."

"I could never hate you, sweetheart.  The thing is, I ... I've got a
lot of money.  More than I can spend.  I didn't see why you shouldn't
be comfortable."

Candy held his gaze, misty-eyed and wobbly-chinned.  At last her face
crumpled on a hiccuping sob.

"Oh, Lord..."  Billy heaved himself off the love seat.  "Sweetheart, I
can't stand to see you like this."  She gulped, "I I II--"

He made his way to her and lifted her to her feet.  She bawled, "I
don't deserve you!  I never did."  He wrapped her in his arms. 
"Agreed. What do you say I let you spend the next thirty years making
it up to me?"

Zara bit her lip on a smile.  It sounded like something Logan would
say.  The idea of her mother spending the rest of her life with Billy
Sharke--her father!--warmed her right down to her toes.

He looked at Zara and her sister over their mother's head.  His eyes
glistened.  "We all have a lot of catching up to do.  I just want you
to know ... I'm proud as hell to be your old man."

Zara laughed and blinked back her own tears.  "Hate to break the news
to you.  I don't go around disarming bad guys every day."

"We're even," he said.  "I don't go around knee-capping 'em with my
cane, either."  He kissed Candy's platinum head.

Detective Jackson poked his head in.  "Your ride's here, ladies."

Zara rose with them.  "I'll go with you.  I just want a word with Logan
first."

The detective said, "Oh, he already left, Miss Sutcliffe."

Her heart constricted.  "Where did he go?"  She regretted the stupid
question the instant it left her mouth.

Detective Jackson shrugged.  "Not to Tahiti, that's all I know.  I
asked him to stick close to home for a while, till we get this whole
thing straightened out.  Same goes for all of you."

Stick close to home.  She should have been thrilled at the prospect.
Her apartment.  The agency.  Her old routine.  Her smooth clean sheets
and her cappuccino maker and her drawer full of naughty undies that she
used to wear' just for herself, wondering what all the fuss was
about.

She wished she'd never found out.

Chapter Fifteen

Zara unlocked the steel door next to the closed warehouse bay, grateful
that she still had the key she'd wangled from Logan.

She hadn't heard word one from him these last two and a half weeks
since Mac's death.  He hadn't answered his phone or returned the
messages she'd left on his machine.  She'd even gone to his apartment
on Manhattan's West Side in the area once known as Hell's Kitchen--not
too far from the warehouse, as it turned out.  He was home, she was
certain, but he didn't answer her persistent knocking.  She'd vowed
then and there to wash her hands of the man.  He obviously didn't want
anything to do with her.

Yet here she was, still tracking him down, tenacious as a bloodhound.
Those six days she'd spent with him were burned into her soul, taking
up much more psychic space than they had a right to.  When she'd left
him standing over Mac's body, talking to the detectives, she couldn't
have guessed that would be her last glimpse of him.  He'd never even
said, "So long, it's been real."

withdraw 'from her, and from everyone else.  He'd been forced to do the
unspeakable--to take his own brother's life.  She empathized with the
hell he had to be going through.  But he didn't have to go through it
alone.

He'd taught her to trust.  It was high time she returned the favor.

He'd go where he feels safe, Lou had told her.  Some secluded place
where he can lick his Wounds in private.  She knew of only one place
that fit the bill.

Every sound seemed magnified in the deserted building--the clang of the
heavy door slamming shut behind her, the clicking of high heels on
concrete.  There were no windows here on the first floor, just
unrelieved gray-painted cinder-block walls and concrete-sheathed
columns standing sentry at regular intervals.  The overhead fluorescent
light fixtures had been left on--a clue that her quarry might indeed be
in residence.

She click-clicked across the floor to the freight elevator and pushed
the call button.  A deep mechanical rumble heralded its arrival.
Through the thick, wired-glass window she watched it descend.  The wide
doors opened vertically, going up and down instead of sideways.

Stooping, she pulled the steel-slat safety gate up, stepped inside the
enormous elevator and closed the gate.  She pushed five, followed by
Close.  And rode the grinding, clanking contraption up five flights,
staring at the scraped-up embossed steel floor and graffiti covered
walls she'd hoped never to see again,

The things one did for love.

Was that what this was?  She'd always thought love was supposed to hit
you like a rubber mallet--and leave you floating on a cloud.  What she
felt was much more complex, and in some ways, much more prosaic.

Frustration.  Exasperation.  Worry.

With just a dollop of compassion to keep her off balance.

On the fifth floor she inserted her key in the lock and pushed open the
door to her onetime safe house.  Clouds of dust motes drifted in the
shafts of late morning.  light streaming in through the filthy
windows.

Her eyes zeroed in on that putrid old mattress, now littered with empty
coffee cups, deli bags and assorted sections of the Sunday Times. Logan
sat in the middle of the mess, nine-millimeter in hand, aimed at her
heart.

Zara raised her hands.  "Don't shoot.  I've got a check for you from
Publishers Clearing House."

He let the gun dangle over his raised knee.  He didn't speak, but he
didn't have to, His eyes were brutally eloquent.  What the hell are you
doing here?

She started toward him.  "Need help with the crossword?"  A memory came
to her of another Sunday morning when the two of them had lolled around
on this mattress together, trying to think of a seven-letter word for
"afflicted," starting with s. The answer only came to her yesterday.

Smitten.

He set the gun aside' and held out his hand, palm up.

Fat chance.  Smiling sweetly, she opened her small black patent
shoulder bag and ostentatiously dropped the warehouse key inside.  She
clicked the bag shut.

She paused at the edge of the mattress, hands on hips, staring down at
him.  From his vantage point he probably had a sensational view up her
short, body-hugging electric blue dress.  Good.

He was barefoot and shirtless this warm June more-' ing, dressed only
in jeans.  His long hair was loose, due more to indifference, she
suspected, than choice.  A couple of days' worth of whiskers studded
his strong jaw.  He looked uncivilized.  Virile.  Irresistible.

"You look 'like hell," she said.

"Go."  He licked his fingertip and turned to the op-ed page.

"I don't think so.  we need to talk."

"I need to be alone to read the damn paper.  If you need to talk, I
suggest you find someone who wants to listen."

"Logan--"

Before she even registered movement, he'd reached up and yanked her
shoulder bag.  She tried to hold on to it and ended up sprawled on her
belly atop the Arts and Leisure section.  Pinning her with a knee to
her back, he opened the purse and upended it over her fanny.  The
contents rolled off her and scattered.  She jerked when his fingers
plunged between her thighs, groping from her knees to the hiked-up hem
of her stretchy dress.  If this was his idea of foreplay... He withdrew
his hand, flipped her over and displayed his prize--the key.  He
slipped it into his jeans pocket.

"Now."  He pulled her to a sitting position and shoved her empty purse
at her.  "Go away or I'll toss your butt on the street.  I don't want
you here.  I can't make it any plainer than that."

"Ah, still the same silver-tongued rascal.  You don't mind if I collect
my things, do you?"  She lifted her wallet and took her time tucking it
into a corner of the purse, just so.

He sighed heavily, watching her scan the mattress for the next logical
item to pack.  "How the hell did you get all that stuff in that little
bitty bag anyway?"

He'd advanced from threats to nonsensical questions.  She supposed that
was progress.

"Watch and learn from the master," she answered, lifting a corner of
the newspaper, searching for her checkbook.  "The key is to pack each
item in the correct order, and in the precise spot where it belongs."

He regarded her in stony silence, sitting cross legged with his arms
folded over his chest, imperious as a pasha.  Finally he blurted,
"Okay.  How'd you get away from Baby Jane?"

She smiled, That question must have been driving him crazy for two and
a half weeks.  "I calmly suggested she call the FBI and ask them if
there's an agent named Logan Pierce."

"And she did it?"

"She pretended to ignore me at first, but I could tell I'd gotten her
thinking.  She started knitting faster and faster, making all these
mistakes.  Finally she picked up the phone."

"Keep packing."

She looked around at the jumble of her belongings.

"Now, where is that lipstick?"  Under her butt, if she wasn't
mistaken.

He asked, "Did you know the revolver was unloaded?"

"I figured it out.  Played with it till that round thing swung open
that holds the bullets... ?"

"The cylinder."

"I looked in all the little spaces and they were empty.  And there was
no ammo in your duffel--you must've taken it out."

"Did you really think I was going to leave-Baby Jane with bullets?"

"I suppose I should be thankful for small favors."  He raked his
fingers through his hair.  "Zara, you could've gotten yourself killed,
pulling a stunt like that--confronting Mac with an unloaded weapon."

"He had my mother, Logan.  I saw everything through the window.
Besides, I figured I had surprise on my side."

He just stared at her, and what she read in his expression just then
made up for nineteen days of silence.  Almost.

He said, "I couldn't have asked for better backup.  You did a hell of a
job."

"We make a good team."

The light faded from his eyes and he looked away.  "I mean it, Zara.  I
need to be alone."

"Why?  So you can keep beating yourself up over what you were forced to
do?"

"No one forced me to do anything.  I had a choice."

"You're right.  You could've chosen to let your brother kill me."

"I could've wounded him.  Shot him in the arm, the shoulder..."

"Is that what they taught you at the academy?  To take careful aim at a
gunman's shoulder when he's about to shoot an innocent victim?  You
acted quickly, automatically, the way you were no doubt trained.  It's
not like you made this decision, I'm going to kill my brother now."

He sighed.  "Zara, I don't expect you to understand."

"You're right.  No one else can really understand what you're going
through.  I can try, though.  I know I hurt for you.  I hurt so badly
for you, Logan."  Her voice cracked.

"All my life I tried to protect my brother, to take care of him.  So
did my folks, in their way."

"How are they taking it?"

He Was silent awhile.  "Better than I'd expected.  I

think, in a way, they knew it was inevitable."

She said softly, "I think you did, too."

His gaze turned inward.  "I keep replaying it in my mind.  Those last
few seconds."

"Did you expect him to just give up and surrender quietly?"

He was about to lie and say yes, she could tell.  Instead he shook his
head.  She wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but she sensed he
wasn't ready for that.

She said, "I'll tell you how it looked from where I was.  standing. Mac
knew it was over, knew he couldn't get away.  You were standing right
there, holding a gun on him.  And he knew that you knew he had that
second gun in his pocket--yours."

"What's your point?"

"He knew you were watching him like a hawk, in case he made a move for
that gun."  She let that hang there.

"And he did.  So what?"

"So it was his choice, don't you see?  He took the decision out of your
hands.  He could've cooperated, let you disarm him.  He could have let
himself be taken into custody and eventually ended up in a mental
facility, like you Wanted.  But he chose to pull that gun, forcing 'you
to stop him.  He knew he didn't have a prayer of getting away."

"Are you saying he had a death wish?"

"No.  Not really.  I just think he wanted the horror to end as badly as
you did.  He was tormented, fanatically jealous of you.  That night he
tried to drown me, he slipped so easily into pretending he was you."

Logan looked pensive.  "And he used my name for his alias in Hobart."

"But he could never become you.  It was like some... violation of the
natural order, the two of you coexisting.  Two incompatible halves of
one whole."

"Seems I'm not the only one who's given this some thought."

She was pleased that she'd managed to get through to him, at least a
little.  "I would've liked to talk to you about all this back then."

He hesitated.  "There was no point.  It's over."  Her chest squeezed
painfully.  What's over?  she wanted to ask.  The terrible ordeal... or
the beauty that came out of it, what the two of them shared?

He continued, "I saw no sense in prolonging things, Zara."

She tried to smile, but bitterness infused her voice.

"Is this what they call a clean break?"

"It's for the best."

"II can understand if being with me reminds you of ... what happened.
Maybe it feels to you like our relationship is ... I don't know,
tainted in some way.  We can talk about it, Logan, we can work around
it."  She despised the pleading tone in her voice.  Where had this
desperation come from?  When had he become as important to her as the
air she breathed?

His expression hardened in exasperation.  "It's not that.  You're
making this harder than it has to be.  I thought I made it clear back
then that there's no future for us."

There it was.  He didn't want her.  He'd tried to let her down the
kindest way he knew how--by ending it abruptly.  Her eyes stung with
tears of humiliation.

She started grabbing her scattered belongings and shoving them into her
purse helter-skelter.  She couldn't bear to look at him, afraid of what
she'd see in his eyes.  The disdain.  Or, worse, pity.

She whipped the newspapers aside and grabbed her tissues, compact and
comb, shoving them into her purse as she staggered to her feet.

"Uh ... you missed something," he said.  She turned back and saw the
small box that had tumbled over the side of the mattress.  Ribbed for
her pleasure.

Her mortification was now complete.  She snatched Up the box and
crammed it into the overstuffed bag,

her face hot as a griddle.  She sprinted toward the door as quickly as
her heels 'would allow.

"Zara.  Don't..."

Don't go away mad, just go away.  Wasn't that how it went?

He swore softly.  "You're taking this the wrong way."

Yanking the door open, she almost laughed, but it would have ended in
tears.  Exactly how many ways were there to take it?

She stabbed the elevator call button and waited impatiently.  Once
inside, she pressed the groUnd-floor button and Close.  As the doors
started closing she heard the warehouse door open and Logan's voice
bellowing at her to wait up.  She jabbed the G button again, hard, as
if that would gee her there faster.  Her fingernail snapped.

She jumped as a resounding blow shook the closed doors.  Logan's fist,
no doubt.  The elevator started its creaky descent.

She wished she'd never sought him out.  How foolish of her to as sum he
shared her feelings.  What had been wondrous and unique to her had been
simply a passing diversion to him.  One of many, no doubt.

On the ground floor the doors slid open.  She yelped in alarm when the
safety gate rolled up before she could touch it.  Logan must have
sprinted down the five flights of stairs, though he didn't appear the
least bit winded.  She tried to scoot past him, but he looped a long
arm around her waist, hauled her back inside the elevator, closed the
gate and punched the Close button for good measure.

The harsh light from above picked out sharp angles in his face, turned
it into a menacing landscape of light and shadow.  "You are going to
listen to me."

"I listened.  You made yourself perfectly clear."

"I don't think I did."

"You want me to make this easy for you!"  she cried.  "You want me to
tell you it's okay for you to do this to me--to make me care and then
walk away.  It's not okay!"

After a moment he said quietly, "I never meant to do that.  God knows I
never wanted to hurt you, Zara."

There it was.  Pity.  He was leaving her with nothing, not even the
shreds of her pride.  "What do you want me to say?"  she asked wearily.
"Is your conscience bothering you, 'is that it?  All fight, then.  It
was a simple misunderstanding and not your fault at all.  You never
meant to lead me on, but silly Zara, starved for love, took the whole
thing much too seriously."

"Zara--"

"As a casual sexual partner, you were a paragon of consideration.  You
didn't pressure me, you saw to my gratification.  Why, you even used a
condom without being asked!"

"Zara, stop this."

"Is that what you wanted to hear?  Can I go now?"  He braced one palm
on a graffiti-covered wall and

'dropped his head a moment, as if seeking divine guidance.  "I tried to
make you understand, back when we..."  He sighed, and when he looked
up, she saw all her own heartache reflected in his eyes.  He said
softly, "I can't give you what you need ... what you deserve.  I don't
have it in me.  I'll only cause you more pain."

"I don't believe that," she whispered.

He smiled sadly.  "You don't know me that well."

"Famous last words.  Isn't that what I once told you?  That you didn't
know me like Tony did?  I was wrong.  You saw right through my
insecurities, my hurts.  You made me open up to you, made me look at
myself in a way I never had before.  You made me believe in myself--and
in you."

He said nothing.

"You made me need you, dammit!"  After a strained silence she said, "I
just want one thing and you'll never hear from me again.  I want to
hear you say you don't feel anything for me."

"That's not what this is about."

"What else is there!  That's the only thing it's about, Logan.  It's
why you paid that little visit to Tony last week."

He frowned.  "How did you find out about that?"  "Mutual
acquaintances."

"It was just something that had to be done, that's all," he said
gruffly.  "The bastard needed an attitude adjustment."

Along with nose, tooth and rib adjustments, if her sources were
correct.  "Well, I may be old-fashioned," she said, "but I always
thought fighting for a woman's honor indicated a certain level of
commitment."

"I care, Zara, I'm not going to deny it.  But it's not enough by
itself.  This commitment you're talking about is built on more than
just feelings.  The last few years have changed me.  I'm not the man I
used to be."

"But maybe you're a better man now.  Did you think of that?  Painful
experiences harden us, but they also bring forth strengths and inner
resources we didn't know we had.  Just ask John Sutcliffe," she added
wryly.  "I don't think he expected his aggressive child-rearing
techniques to stir up all that mutinous self-reliance.  Maybe your
sensitivity is the result of whatever horrible things you've had to
deal with."

"Sensitivity!"  He couldn't have looked more astonished if she'd
accused him of cross-dressing.

"You don't think you're sensitive?  What about when you asked me if
Tony ever gave me encouragement, a shoulder to cry on?  If he supported
me emotionally?  Logan, you opened my eyes to what a relationship is
supposed to be.  You seem to have a better handle on it all than I
do."

"Hell, that stuff's just common sense."

She smiled.  "Believe it or not, that sort of sense isn't as common as
you might believe.  Face it, big guy.  You're sensitive?"

He didn't look amused.

"Don't worry," she said.  "I won't tell anyone."  "This isn't going to
work," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.  "I've told you
before, Zara.  There's a piece of me that's just not there."

She closed the short distance to take his hand in hers.  "That's
because you've already given it to me.  Straight from your heart to
mine."  She placed his palm between her breasts.  "Before you, I wasn't
whole.  That's the way you put it, and you were right.  I've changed,
healed--you've done that for me.  You've given me that piece of
yourself and completed me."

Logan shook his head with a little smile of admiration.  "Must be hell
trying to negotiate a deal with you.  I'll bet those publishers and
movie people scatter when they see you coming."

"They run like cheap panty hose."

He ran his hands over her hips, pulling her closer.  "Now, how would
you know about panty hose, cheap or otherwise?"

His fingers slipped under her short hem and traced the edges of her
sheer black stockings.  A delicious shiver raced through her.  He
lowered his head and kissed her the way she'd imagined being kissed
these last two and a half weeks.  Through the voluptuous haze she felt
him reach behind her with both hands.  After a few seconds of
fumbling, one garter hook popped operi.

Breathless, she broke the kiss.  "What are you doing?"

"Don't have my knife on me."  He released the other back hook and
started working on the front ones.

She looked around at the huge, grimy freight elevator.  "Here?"

"Unless you'd prefer that lovely mattress upstairs."

"No!  Here is just fine."

He pulled her royal blue silk panties down her hips and eased them over
her high heels.  He looped them on one of the steel buttons studding
the wall near the ceiling, usually used to support heavy protective
Padding.

"See?"  he said.  "All the conveniences.""

She couldn't have cared less about conveniences.  She'd make love with
this man anywhere, anytime.  All he had to do was touch her--Lord, just
look at her in that certain way--and a lifetime of propriety took
wing.

He said, "My knife's not the only thing I don't have on me.  Good thing
you came prepared."

He rummaged in the gaping purse still hanging on her shoulder and
produced the box of condoms.  He plucked out one square packet,
pocketed it and dropped the rest.  The purse slid to the embossed metal
floor, disgorging its contents for the second time that morning.  Her
compact crashed in a spray of powder.  Her lipstick rolled into the
corner.

She barely noticed, enthralled by Logan's voracious kisses, his
impatient hands, the leashed power in his hard,-half-naked body.  Her
own hands and mouth roamed restlessly, frantic for the touch of him,
the taste of him.  She feasted her senses like a woman starved.  A
thumping hunger settled between her legs and she felt herself unfurl
like a dew-drenched rose.

She tugged at his belt, yanking it from the buckle with a snap of
leather.  She struggled with the brass button of his jeans, until his
hand slid under her dress.  Then all she could do was grab him for
support.

"Logan ... please..."  she whimpered in a frenzy of need.  "Now!"

"Open it."  He indicated his fly.

She forced her fingers to move, forced herself to concentrate on
working his zipper.  She tugged the jeans and briefs down, freeing him.
And all the while he stroked her, probed her, touched her right there,
until she was half out of her mind.

He handed her he packet.  "You do it."

He might as well have asked her to pilot a 747; her wits had long since
deserted her, He continued to caress her as she tore at the thing with
shaking hands, finally ripping it open with her teeth.  She knew he was
tormenting her on purpose, enjoying her loss of control.

She chuckled.  "I'll pay you back for this."

"I can hardly wait."

She tossed the torn packet and applied herself to the task of sheathing
him, a new experience for her."  He watched the process avidly,
groaning as she smoothed the thin latex down his rigid penis.  His own
control was near the breaking point, too, she could tell, as he
unceremoniously hiked up her snug dress.

"Hold on now."  He lifted her by the hips, opening her legs 'and
wrapping them around his waist.  He never took his eyes from hers as he
drove into her in one powerful thrust.  They cried out in unison, a
triumphant sound.  She knew at that moment they were one not only in
flesh but in spirit, as well.  He throbbed deep inside her, and her
body answered with involuntary little spasms.

He groaned, "I don't want it to end.  I wish we could stay like this
forever."

"Someone may need the elevator someday."  "Let 'em use the stairs." 
The muscles in his arms bunched as he lifted her, holding her empty and
aching for a long heartbeat before lowering her on his length once
more.  He smiled at her shuddering gasp of fulfillment.  His powerful
arms moved her in a timeless rhythm, bringing her closer and closer to
the searing brink of orgasm.

She clung tightly to his flexing shoulders, wondering how long a person
could endure this degree of pleasure and stay sane.  She was a wild
thing, panting, riding him, blindly seeking his mouth with her own.
Needing to be connected to him in every possible way.

And then her climax was nearly upon her, just out of reach but moving
in swiftly, like a gathering storm.  Sweet, sharp anticipation spiked
ever higher with each hammering stroke, until it hit like a typhoon.

Logan succumbed to his release in the same charged instant.  Together
they rode it out, holding fast to each other, moving as one.

Afterward they remained wrapped around each other, all sweat-slick arms
and legs, not a hairbreadth of space between them.  Their hearts played
bumper cars.  Zara roused herself, lifted her head from his shoulder.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, deliciously slumberous.

She mumbled, "Mmm ... thirsty."

"All that panting and screaming will do that."  "Oh!"  She tried to
pummel his rump with her heel, but with little success.  He tightened
his hold, and his laughing eyes turned solemn.

"Zara, I do love you.  I don't think I told you that."  Her heart
swelled till she thought it would burst.  "No."  She laughed at the
sudden tears that clogged her throat.  "I don't think you did.  I love
you, too, Logan.  I've never been in love before."

"That makes two of us.  We'll just have to muddle through together."

"Hey, we make a hell of a team, remember?  We'll get it figured out."

He gently set her down on her own wobbly legs and bent to retrieve the
pack of tissues that had fallen out of her purse.  A few moments later
they were both decent, if rumpled.  Logan squatted to help gather the
contents of her purse.

"Oh, my God!"  She touched the bite wound on his shoulder, ran her
fingers over the claw marks.  "Did I do this?"

He craned his head to look.  "The price of being a world-class lover.
There's always the risk of permanent bodily injury."

She smirked.  "Remind me never to become a world-class lover."  '

"Too late.  Didn't you notice those finger marks on your fanny?"

She rubbed her sore bottom through her dress.  "No, but now that you
mention it..."

"What can I say?  You make me forget myself."  She picked up the box of
condoms and tried to squeeze it into the overstressed bag.  "Guess I
should're brought a bigger purse."

"Oh, you won't be taking those home."  He plucked the box from her
fingers.

"I won't?"

His slow, suggestive grin said, Trust me on this.  He punched the
button for the fifth floor.  The elevator jerked and started its
grinding ascent.

She wrinkled her nose.  "Logan, that mattress..."

"There's the desk, the chair, the coffee table.  Have you ever done it
on a windowsill?"

His words drew intriguing images in her mind.  She asked, "Have you
ever done it in an elevator before?"

"Nope."

"So what do you think?"

"It has its--" She slapped a hand over his mouth, but he still managed
a garbled, "Ups and downs."  The elevator stopped and he raised the
slatted gate.

She said, "I'm surprised at you, Logan.  A

old gag like that from a world-class lover?"

"With enough inspiration, I'm sure I can come up with something more
original."  He held open door to the warehouse and gestured grandly.

me."

Epilogue

Candy had never heard the wedding march played with quite this much
enthusiasm-or improvisation.  Trust Zara to choose a Dixieland band.
Emma had held out for a sedate string quartet, but after Zara took her
to hear some New Orleans-style jazz, she changed her mind.  "Feel-good
music," Emma had dubbed it.  The decision was made.

About three hundred guests occupied the rows of chairs that had been
set up on the enormous lawn of Zara and Logan's new home on Long
Island--a wedding present from Billy.  It was a perfect early autumn
afternoon, mild and sunny.

The instant they heard the familiar tune, everyone turned toward the
rear of the flower-bedecked aisle.  Tears welled in Candy's eyes as she
spotted her husband standing between their daughters, his arms linked
with theirs.  Bill Sharke still took her breath away every time she
looked at him.  He was more handsome than he'd been thirty years
earlier when she'd first fallen in love with him.

He'd invited her to share in the honor of walking the twin brides down
the aisle, but she'd declined.

For once in her life, tradition had won out.  She wanted to enjoy the
picture-perfect symmetry of her beautiful daughters sharing this
momentous walk with their father.

Her family.

Emma was wearing her' grandma Sarro's wedding dress, a high-necked
column of ivory satin, seed pearls and delicate handmade lace.  She
looked sixteen with her long, dark hair worn straight and simple, her
crown ringed by a circlet of ivory rosebuds from which fell an
exquisite floor-length veil.  Candy was happy her mother was there to
see it.  Beside her, she heard Mama's soft, awe-filled gasp.

Zara had chosen satin, too: the futuristic wedding dress from Atomic
Bride, the costume that had been on display in her living room the last
few months.  The white satin concoction was very short, nipped in at
the waist and flared at the hips.  It boasted an enormous winglike
collar that framed her face and accented the down-to-there neckline.  A
perky matching cap sat askew on her short hair.  Thigh-high white satin
boots with four-inch heels completed the look.  Say what you will, it
was a memorable outfit.  Judy Jetson meets Madonna.

Billy's limp was barely noticeable during the leisurely processional.
He glowed with pride, and the girls looked happier than she'd ever seen
them.  Logan's friend Louise gave Zara a thousand-watt smile as they
passed.  Her daughter, Holly, offered a thumbs-up to the outrageous
outfit.

Billy escorted his daughters to their bridegrooms, flanking the
minister.  "He kissed them, shook the men's hands, then.  joined Candy
in the front row, but not before giving his mother-in-law's furrowed
cheek a warm kiss.

He squeezed Candy's hand, and she fought to hold back tears of joy.  If
she started bawling now, she wasn't likely to stop.  All the wedding
photos would show her with red eyes and smeared mascara.

She still couldn't get over the fact that these two hunks were about to
become her sons-in-law.  Gage' Foster was six feet plus of robust Dixie
charm.  Blue eyes.  Thick light brown hair.  He reminded her of
Harrison Ford, ruggedly elegant in a charcoal suit and blue shin,
complete with string tie and cowboy boots.

And then there was Logan Byrne.  Even though he was physically
identical to the man who'd kidnapped and terrorized her, Candy never
confused the two in her mind.  Logan was the antithesis of his demented
brother.

He looked painfully handsome in a navy blue double-breasted suit, white
shin and an exquisite silk tie in shades of red.  His dark hair was
pulled off his face in a ponytail, and he was smiling at his bride in a
way that told Candy their wedding night would be one for the record
books.

The minister began, "Friends, we're doubly blessed today, to witness
and rejoice as not one, but two couples declare their love and
commitment before God..."

Mama started sniffling at that point, as did Candy's seven sisters and
sisters-in-law sitting behind her, and it was all she could do not to
join them.  She gave up the fight at the end of the moving service when
her new sons-in-law kissed their brides with such fervor that the
guests erupted in cheers and applause.  The band struck up "SWeet
Georgia Brown" as the beaming brides retraced their steps down the
aisle on their husbands' arms.

The couples and their parents greeted each guest in turn in a reception
line, after which waiters distributed flutes of champagne.  Billy's
deep, mellifluous voice got the crowd's attention.

"Four months ago, I thought I was the luckiest man alive to find myself
the father of these two bright, talented, lovely young women.  Today my
joy is complete.  Zara and Emma have found themselves men who can make
them as happy as they deserve to be."  He raised his glass.  "After
sixty-three years, I have a passel of in-laws, and it feels damn
good!"

Everyone laughed and joined him in drinking to the newlyweds.  Hots
d'oeuvres and cocktails flowed as the hired help set out a sumptuous
dinner buffet.  The band was doing amazing things with "When the Saints
Come Marching In."  Guests mingled in clusters and around white-draped
tables dotting the grounds.  The photographer posed the couples for a
few shots, then Candy and Billy with the brides, before setting off to
corral the grooms' parents.

Candy noticed that Zara's and Emma's arms remained around each other's
waists even after the photographer left.  Over the past four months,
she'd watched their relationship blossom.  Crises had a way of
straightening out one's priorities.  She knew both of her daughters had
vowed to put their strained past behind them and renew the close bond
that should never have been allowed to lapse.

This double wedding was an auspicious beginning.  Never would she have
imagined these two opinionated young women capable of compromising on
such profound issues as what brand of champagne to buy--Emma's Veuve
Clicquot had won out--or whether the cake should be filled with
raspberry preserves or ganfiche.  Both found their way between the
layers.

Billy said, "Gage, how's that new wing coming along?"

His wedding gift to Emma and Gage had been an extensive addition to
Gage's sprawling log home tucked into the woods of rural Arkansas.
Candy had visited them there and experienced the rustic opulence
firsthand.  Even a city girl like her had to admit it was a beautiful
pace to live, and to raise children.

Gage said, "It's nearly finished.  Emma and I can't wait to move into
the new office."

Zara said, "You two will be sharing an office?

Good luck getting any work done."

Emma blushed.  "Zara!"

"I thought true love had cured your priggish nature," Zara teased.
"Guess I was wrong."

Despite Emma's knee-jerk reaction, Candy knew she had indeed loosened
up a lot over the last few months, since Gage had come into her life.
It had worked both ways.  Emma's encouragement and support had helped
him find self-respect and gratification in his new career, writing best
selling medical thrillers.  An injury to his hand had forced the former
surgeon out of the operating room, and the adjustment hadn't been
easy.

"As a matter of fact," Emma said, "Gage and I work exceptionally well
together.  We brainstorm on each other's books.  We're like a
two-person critique group."

After moving to Arkansas with her fiance, Emma had happily relinquished
her brand-new, detested job as a staff writer at Crafty Lady magazine
in New York.  Her new home--or was it her new man?--had proven
inspirational.  Not only had she started writing a novel herself, she'd
finished it in two months and, thanks to her Sister's superior agenting
skills, sold it in two days!

Crazy Quilt was a cozy mystery set in Maine, where Emma had lived for
years.  The amateur sleuth was a quilting instructor and owner of a
craft supply store.  Emma's publisher envisioned it as the first of a
series and had signed her for two more books.  Her lifelong love of
mystery novels and innate storytelling ability had served her well.

Logan turned to Gage.  "Zara tells me incision's going to be made into
a movie.  It's a hell of a book--it'll be dynamite On the big
screen."

"Thanks, but your missus deserves the credit for the movie deal, and
for that new multi book contract she just negotiated for me."  He
winked at his new sister-in-law.  "Lady, those fellas in New York and
Hollywood must run for cover when they see you comin'."

Zara and Logan exchanged a private grin, She said, "Like
cockroaches."?

Logan slipped his ann around her.  "I thought it was cheap panty
hose."

Candy snorted.  "What would Zara know about panty hose?"

Billy said, "If we can move the subject away from my daughter's
unmentionables, I have an announcement to make.  My wife--" he put his
arm around Candy's shoulders and pulled her close "--has been asked to
star in three exercise videos, aimed at the mature set.  Jane Fonda,
watch out!"

Candy accepted her family's heartfelt congratulations.  She basked in
her husband's pride.  He'd harassed and cajoled her every step of the
way.  If not for him, she wouldn't have found the gumption to fight for
this long-held dream.

The photographer returned with Logan's and Gage's parents.  The Fosters
were warm and gregarious as always, but Madeline and Douglas Byrne
looked ill at ease as they approached the group, as if intruding on a
stranger's celebration.  Candy's heart went out to them.  As a parent,
she empathized with what they'd gone through, both before and after
Mac's death.  She took the fact that they'd agreed to attend Logan's
wedding as a positive omen.

Douglas offered his hand, and Logan shook it.  "I'm happy for you, son.
She's a wonderful girl."  The emotion that flowed between them as they
stared into each other's eyes brought a lump to Candy's throat.

Madeline Byrne tentatively touched her son's fingers.  He covered her
hand with both of his, hesitated a moment and pulled her into his arms.
He whispered hoarsely, "I love you, Morn," and tightened his hold.

Candy caught Zara's eye, saw the sheen of tears and answered her wobbly
smile with one of her own.  It was a first step.  It wouldn't be easy.
These three had a painful past to overcome and a long journey ahead of
them.  But she sensed an underlying devotion that would see them
through.

The photographer had positioned his tripod and was busy posing the
group.  "Gentlemen in back, ladies in front.  Arms at.  your sides.
Turn a little that way.  Move in, please.  Closer.  Closer."

Emma gave a little gasp and smirked over her shoulder at her new
husband.

Gage's grin was unrepentant.  "The man said to get closer, darling'."

"He didn't mean your hands?"

Billy, too, was surreptitiously fondling his wife's bottom, but did she
complain?

The band struck up the lively "Dippermouth Blues" as the photographer
scanned his subjects one last time and peered through the viewfinder.
"Okay, now, everyone smile."

That part was easy, Candy thought.  They all had something to smile
about.